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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27754207">Saltwater Sonata</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope'>pinstripedJackalope</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sing a Song to the Soul at the Bottom of the Sea [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angsty Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Needs Therapy, Canon-Typical Violence, Catatonic Nicky, Dreams and Nightmares, Drowning, F/F, For most of the fic, Forgiveness, Graphic Depictions of Drowning, Hurt Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, I'm Sorry, Immortality, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Trauma, Mental Health Issues, Nicky is at the bottom of the ocean, Nicky is in the iron maiden, Nicky | Nicolo di Genova is put in the Iron Maiden, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Needs a Hug, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Whump, POV Alternating, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Sailing, Starvation, Storyswap, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting, Whump, a hint of body horror in later chapters, for a bit, he gets better tho!, lol, nicky has had a shit time of it okay, refeeding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:08:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>68,390</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27754207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five hundred years ago, Joe lost his love to the sea.  This is the story of how he gets him back.</p><p>Aka a bit of a storyswap where Nicky winds up in the iron maiden instead of Quynh.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre &amp; Everyone, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sing a Song to the Soul at the Bottom of the Sea [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030191</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1063</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>966</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This has been done before but I do not care.  Updates should come every Friday until I don't have any more chapters ready to post.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>England, five hundred years ago</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The room, if you can call it a room, is small and cramped.  It smells of unwashed bodies, of lamp oil, and, distant but ever-present, of thick, cloying black smoke.  It’s chilled, despite the dim orange lamplight, and the two of them have long since grown accustomed to the rattle of chains, links clinking against each other like the sound of ice slowly cracking underfoot. </p><p>It was maddening when they were first chained down.  Now it is just another sound.  An accompaniment to those of the suffering that comes from outside the cell walls.  It isn’t as if they can escape—they’ve tried already.  Many times.  All they can see is futility, the flickering flames illuminating rough stone walls and thick wooden doors, straw strewn across a hard stone floor.  All they can feel is the tension of those who are sentenced to death but can never truly die. </p><p>…This does not mean they cannot starve, though.</p><p>Joseph huffs a laugh as Nicolas’s stomach growls in the quiet.  It’s been more vocal than his own in the past few days since they were hanged and subsequently revived.  He suspects that Nicholas hadn’t been eating for some time before that, sneaking his rationed food to those imprisoned and awaiting the joke of a trial that would be afforded to them.  He had tried to split his own rations, leaving half for Nicolas, but that, too, may have wound up with the prisoners.  This is not the first time they have seen such suffering, not the first time Nicolas has done everything in his power and more to try and help those who cannot help themselves.</p><p>It is, however, the first time they are to be burnt alive for the trouble.</p><p>“What do you think they’re waiting for?” Joseph asks, angling his head to the side to Nicolas beside him, his profile dark against the lamplight, nose sloped and jaw sharp. </p><p>Nicolas stares across the way for a long moment before he shakes his head, his light hair falling forward as he leans down to scrub a hand over his cheeks, chains rattling.  “I do not know.  It does not take this long to stoke a fire.” </p><p>Joseph hums, waiting until Nicolas lets out a sigh and turns his head to meet his gaze.  “…I’ve been thinking,” he says. </p><p>Nicolas blinks oceanic green eyes, studying him through the grime of dirt and charcoal that smudges his face.  “Thinking what?” he asks.</p><p>Joseph purses his lips, staring at Nicolas as Nicolas stares back at him.  He takes courage in the lightness of that look, the way Nicolas’s lips twitch as if suppressing a smile.  It is a look Nicolas has rarely had in recent times.  “Malta,” Joseph says, and sees something vast and beautiful but also sad bloom in Nicolas’s eyes.</p><p>“We should go back there,” Nicolas says, finishing the thought that Joseph began.  <em>After this</em>, his words imply.  After the pain and suffering, after burning alive.  </p><p>Joseph nods.  “We should,” he says, and he doesn’t have to say the words they’re both thinking.  They both know that Malta is a promise—that they will get through this side by side, once, twice, as many times as it takes.  They are strong alone and stronger together.  </p><p>…Too strong, as it turns out.</p><p>Joseph fights.  He twists and punches and bites as hard as he can, and delights in the screams of the guards who are trying to subdue him.  He is nearly lost in the frenzy when he realizes that Nicolas, beside him, has gone still, staring through the open doors. </p><p>“Nicolas—” Joseph says, and grunts as the guard he bit knees him in the gut, doubling him over.  He watches from there as they switch targets, moving from him to Nicolas.  They grab his pale wrists, wrenching them down with far more force than necessary for someone who isn’t fighting back.</p><p>“You bastards!” Joseph spits.  “Get your hands off of him!  Nicolas, Nicolo, what the hell do you think you’re <em>doing</em>?!  For God’s sake, <em>fight them</em>!” </p><p>But Nicolas doesn’t, his eyes trained on the open doors.  Joseph turns his head, as well, and there—there is something waiting.  A box, or a coffin, or a statue—he cannot quite tell.  All he knows is that it is made of black iron, and that Nicolas is trained on it, as if he understands something that Joseph himself has not.</p><p>“What are you doing?  What is that?” Joseph says, and fights harder.  He groans as the guards slam him up against the wall, cinching his chains tighter as they do.</p><p>The priest before him bares his teeth, holding the large wooden cross up as if shielding himself with it, separating Joseph from Nicolas.  “It is called an iron maiden,” he says.  “It will contain his witchcraft so we may break your bond.”</p><p>“I’ll break <em>you</em>—” Joseph snarls, and receives another kick for his trouble.  This one breaks his knee, and he screams as it bends wrong.  The whole procession moves, Nicolas in front and the guards at his back pushing him forward, the priest bringing up the rear, as Joseph’s knee heals.  As soon as he’s able to stand again, Joseph hurls himself forward—but he is already too late.  They are shoving Nicolas inside the box, this <em>iron maiden</em>, and Nicolas goes without a fuss.</p><p>Joseph yells, his voice so loud that it vibrates through his lungs.  “<em>Why are you doing this</em>?” he says, and fights harder still, now against the chains holding him back rather than the guards and their hands.  “Let him go, let him go—Nicolas, <em>don</em><em>’t let them do this</em>—”</p><p>But Nicolas does not fight.  He does not turn, does not acknowledge Joseph until he’s stepped up into the metal beast, turning around to face Joseph through the holes in the top that take the shape of a grotesquery of a face.  He shakes his head as the guards slam the iron doors shut, his eyes distant and unfathomable, the vast beauty of Malta, of a haven for them to find together, long gone. </p><p>Joseph can’t help it—he screams, in fury and fear and pain, as his wrists break behind him, his shoulders dislocating from their sockets as he wrenches his body forward.  So hard, and so desperate, as the guards wrap ever more chains with inch-thick links around the iron box and padlock it tight.  There is a ship at the dock behind them, and Joseph realizes all at once what Nicolas probably understood this entire time—they don’t intend to just leave him in the box.  They intend to take him to sea and throw him overboard.  And still, <em>still—</em>Nicolas, his sweet Nicolo, who gave every scrap of bread he had to those starving in cells—doesn’t say a word.</p><p>Joseph cries out, thrashing again, but it’s no use.  Not even at the speed at which they heal.  The bonds are too tight—no matter how many bones he breaks he will not get through.  Not now.  He wails as the guards begin to close the doors, wheeling the iron maiden down the path to the dock. </p><p>“I’ll come for you!” Joseph yells, through the ever-smaller gap.  “Nicolo, I will come for you!  Stay strong, love, please stay strong!  Hear me now, I won’t stop until you are in my arms again—”</p><p>And though Joseph knows that Nicolo is scared, so scared, he does not fight.  He does not throw himself against the inside of the iron maiden, he does not scream—he does <em>nothing</em>.  Nothing except flash a fleeting smile through the holes and call out, “Come sooner rather than later, yes?”</p><p>And the doors close, and the lamplight flickers, and Joseph screams, and he does not get free.  Instead he burns, three days later, and rises again to slay the monsters who imprisoned them, who sent Nicolo to the depths.  It is with a fury unlike anything he’s ever known that he tracks down the guards and the priest and the sailors, all, one by one by one, torturing information from them and disposing of them when they are of no more use, becoming the demon that they originally thought him.  And yet, no matter how many throats he slits, no matter how many eyes he takes or ribs he spreads, he does not find his love.</p><p>He does not see Nicolo again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Morocco, modern day</em>.</p><p> </p><p>In this part of the city of this part of the desert, the red sand-colored buildings are high and the alleyways between them slim.  This isn’t a tourist attraction, not an open market street where you can buy some fruit and some trinkets and hail a taxi back to your overpriced timeshare.  Only pedestrians and the occasional determined biker can get through the winding maze of hidden shops here, and even then only the locals and those with a keen eye care to try, as said shops don’t appear on any map. </p><p>It’s the kind of place that Andy revels in.  She walked through the lush greenery here before it became a desert, in an age long past, before this population ever existed.  She saw the vast open dunes that came afterward, she passed through when the city was a village made up of straggling huts, and she’s here now, in the oldest part of the city, as the buildings tower over her head.  She knows the secrets of this place, knows the age of the stone in the age of her own bones, though the age of the walls and roofs and pathways is a number of years that still dwarfs in comparison to her.</p><p>She’s just exited a small tea shop, a tin of loose leaf tucked away in her bag and several <em>dirham</em> lighter, when she hears the distant buzz of a motor bike pinging off the walls.  She keeps an ear on it as she continues to walk, eyes observant behind large, dark sunglasses.  The sound doesn’t turn away and head in another direction as she suspects it will—instead it’s growing closer, slow but steady.</p><p>She breathes out, preparing to draw the gun tucked into her waistband. </p><p>It doesn’t come to that.  The bike comes up behind her, past her, in front of her, cutting to a sudden stop, and as it pivots she has just enough time to see—</p><p>She smiles, turning back to glance behind her before facing the man on the bike.  Trust Booker to have found her in these back alleys as easy as he does anything.</p><p>“You good?” he asks, moving out of her way to set the bike up against a wall, leaving it behind. </p><p>“Yeah,” she says, and begins to walk. </p><p>“Yeah?”  He nods, and takes the pack off of the bike and slings it over his back, catching up to her.  “You travel?”</p><p>“We did,” Andy says, already reaching into her own bag for the book pressed up against the tea tin.  “And I got you something.”</p><p>“What’s that?” he asks, taking it from her when she holds it out.  “Oooh, first edition <em>Don Quixote</em>.  That couldn’t have been cheap.”</p><p>“It wasn’t,” she says.  Booker laughs.  It’s nice, to hear him laugh—she feels like she hasn’t heard it in decades, though it’s only been a year since they went their separate ways.  “Quynh?” she asks, glancing over at him.</p><p>He nods.  “Already waiting at the hotel.  I caught her at the market.”</p><p>“And…?”</p><p>At this, however, Booker shakes his head.  “No one else.  Just us three.”</p><p>Andy nods.  It isn’t surprising, not really, but she’d hoped… well.  She isn’t sure what she’d hoped.  Whatever it was, fleeting and perfunctory, it’s nowhere to be found now.</p><p>As if he knows, as if he feels the same, Booker shakes his head.  “Come on,” he says, and guides her through more populated streets to the hotel he must mean.  There is a television out front playing breaking news about a bombing in Syria—another tragedy in a long list of tragedies.  She hums, considering.  They just took a year off, all of them a little too wrung out to continue on the way they were, but perhaps it’s time to get back to things.  Booker has a job or two, she knows he does, otherwise he wouldn’t be here—she’ll hear him out and decide.</p><p>If random teenagers will stop taking selfies of her, anyway.</p><p>She sighs.  Then she finagles her way in, deletes the photo of her, and takes another of the group of young British tourists.  That’s one thing she hates about this particular era—there’s surveillance everywhere you care to turn.  It’s impossible to disappear.</p><p><em>Maybe that</em><em>’s a good thing</em>, her mind says, as she follows Booker to the room he’s checked into.  There have been times where she’s thought about abandoning the others, of giving up her role as the leader of their ragtag group of miscreants and finding somewhere to hole up and hide until the day eventually came when she’d finally wither up and die.  She’s wanted to give up, wanted to give in—but every time she thinks about Quynh, her smile and her fierce passion and her love, and she knows she couldn’t.  Shouldn’t.  She can’t do that to her oldest friend, her oldest love—it would be akin to spitting in the face of God.  Not that she hasn’t thought about doing that, too, honestly.  If she met God that would be the first thing she’d do.  The point is that she would never hurt Quynh that way, and Quynh wouldn’t allow her to hurt the others such, and thus their little group functions, more or less, day to day to day.</p><p>Speaking of Quynh.  She’s there when Andy and Booker arrive, answering the door with a smile on her face.  She presses a simple hello kiss to Andy’s cheek, and another to Booker’s, before the three of them head inside.  Andy pulls out the tea and tosses it to Quynh, who lights up—she immediately goes to boil some water.</p><p>As soon as the tea is ready, Andy settles in with her cup, smelling it appreciatively.  “You know what I could use right now?” she says.  She doesn’t wait for an answer before she says, “Something sweet.”</p><p>Booker looks over, gaze pleading, correctly reading the urge to get up and go find something sweet that’s in her eyes.  “The job, boss,” he says, keeping her on track.</p><p>“Fine, fine.  The job.  Tell me.”</p><p>So he does.  Or he begins to.  The moment he opens his mouth and asks if she remembers Surabaya and their CIA contact, James Copley, she’s already shaking her head.  “No repeats, Book,” she says.  She doesn’t have to look at Quynh to get her point across.</p><p>Still, Booker frowns.  “You haven’t even heard what the pitch is,” he says.</p><p>She shakes her head.  “I don’t need to hear it.  We don’t do repeats.  It’s too risky.”</p><p>Booker sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes.  “That’s final?” he asks.  There’s a strange look to him, something murky, like silt disturbed at the bottom of a riverbed, that has Andy and Quynh exchanging a frown. </p><p>They have a silent conversation, all quirks of their eyebrows and tilts of their heads, before Quynh hums, turning to Booker.  “…We can still take <em>a</em> job if not <em>this</em> job, though, no?” she says.  “We’ve taken a long enough break.”</p><p>Andy nods.  “Yeah.  As long as we’re together we might as well try to do some good against the avalanche of awful in the world.  It’s time to get back to it.”  She reaches over, knocking her knuckles against Booker’s shoulder.  “Got anything else of interest, Book?”</p><p>Booker breathes out a sigh, not loud but somehow too heavy for his relatively short life.  Then he blinks, pulling himself together.  “Yeah.  Yeah, uh… there’s one in North Korea that’s suited to us.”</p><p>“Tell me,” Andy says, leaning forward and setting her tea down.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapters up to Chapter Five are finished and ready to post, so no worries about updates just yet!  We're good to go for the next three fridays, haha.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Afghanistan, modern day.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The children crowd around, excited voices chattering away as Nile holds out a glove full of candy for them.  They’re sweet, eager, as they take the treats—but there’s one who is standing off to the side, watching from a distance instead of coming close.  He reminds her of her brother when he was younger, how he would sit on the stairs half-hidden, watching her and her friends during sleepovers until she invited him in.</p>
<p>Nile doesn’t know much Pashto but she’s picked up enough by now to be able to beckon the boy over, calling out for him to <em>come, come</em>.  He does, after a moment of hesitation.  Nile smiles as he thanks her, and responds with a <em>you</em><em>’re welcome</em>.  So polite—they’re like the kids at her church back home.  She smiles wider.  She could spend all day with the kids, herding the little ones around and making them smile.</p>
<p>“Freeman!”</p>
<p>Or not.  “Here sergeant!” she calls, standing up and gripping her rifle.  She listens as he gives her her orders, then calls over Dizzy and Jordan as well as the interpreter to head off in the direction of the house the women are in to get information. </p>
<p>It’s a fairly standard assignment—they have intel that there’s a fugitive linked to a bombing to the East hiding out somewhere in this village, and it’s their job to capture him before their whole operation is undermined by the terrorists.  The women tend to respond better to the female soldiers, so Nile has gotten used to this, to going in to talk to women and children.  She tells her mom about some of the women she meets, when she can send letters out—talking about the fabrics they use for scarves and head coverings, and the beautiful things they make with their hands.  Some of the villages she’s seen are too poor to do much more than tend to their animals, but they still find room for beauty in the rugs and the architecture and their clothing.</p>
<p>Nile breathes out, holding her rifle steady as she heads between the houses.  She’s been waiting for a letter back from her mom for a few days now.  The post out here isn’t all that reliable, and there are times and missions during which she’s not allowed to send mail out or receive any back, but despite that she still sends as many letters home as she can.  The last thing she wants is for her mom to worry.  Just like the last thing she wants to do is to alarm the women they’re going to see.  These women, they are mothers.  Daughters.  Sisters.  She adjusts her rifle as they converge on the house.  “Keep it respectful,” she says, a reminder.</p>
<p>“Don’t we always?” Dizzy asks.</p>
<p>Nile hums.  “Doesn’t hurt to repeat it,” she says.  Then she heads inside, lowering her weapon and pulling her helmet off to address the women gathered.  She introduces herself in Pashto, as she’s learned to do.  Then, with help from the interpreter, she holds the picture of the fugitive aloft, asking for their assistance.  It’s a long shot, but maybe they’ll be able to tell them something of interest.</p>
<p>The women shake their heads, avoiding eye contact.  Nile doesn’t back down, instead holding the picture up to any of them who will look.  When the eyes of the woman in front of her cut urgently to the side, toward a rug hanging on the wall, she knows they have him.</p>
<p>Nile grits her teeth.  “Thank you for allowing us into your home,” she says, and pulls her helmet back on, gesturing for Dizzy and Jordan to raise their weapons and flank the rug as the interpreter gestures for the women to move out of the line of fire.  It’s time to move.</p>
<p>Things go quickly from there.  Gunshots through the rug, through the door behind it, and Nile moves on instinct, her training sharp in her mind.  They go in and—the fugitive raises his gun and—she shoots and—<em>clear, covering</em>—she disables the gun and—kneels beside the man as blood bubbles up through his teeth and—</p>
<p>—and—</p>
<p>—and—</p>
<p>Dying hurts, she finds out.  It hurts so much.  And then… then it doesn’t hurt, and that’s somehow worse.  Time slows down, the seconds turn into hours as her numb fingers clutch at Dizzy’s hands.  She’s scared, so scared, she can feel her blood pooling underneath her as it pours through her slit throat and she’s waiting for a letter from her mom and it feels like forever as she holds as tight as she can before she has no more strength in her fingers and they fall away.  She stares, unblinking, as the world goes dark.</p>
<p>It’s dark for a while.  She drifts.  She’s not sure where she is, but it’s pleasant.  There is no pain and no fear, here.  It’s like being far, far underwater, so deep that the light doesn’t reach.  She wonders if this is heaven.  If this is hell.  Or if it is, perhaps, just nothingness.  She wonders if this will be forever.  And then… just when she has accepted that this is it, that this is eternity… she feels a tug.  Like a hook has lodged in her gut and is dragging her toward the surface.</p>
<p>She dreams, she thinks.  As she rises images come to her, splintered flashes of—</p>
<p>
  <em>—long black hair twisted into a bun—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>—an axe with two blades—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>—a screen lit with green light—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>—a silver flask—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>—a cold as harsh as death—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>—the feeling of water pouring down her throat—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>—a woman</em>
  <em>’s face, teeth bared—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>—the motion of a ship—</em>
</p>
<p>—and then, all at once, she wakes.</p>
<p>She gasps, her first instinct to reach for the place where the water poured down her thro—but no, it wasn’t water, it was—blood, so much blood—pouring from her throat—</p>
<p>Gasping, she reaches for her neck and finds a bandage.  A bandage, with nothing underneath but unmarked skin.</p>
<p><em>The women</em>, she thinks, the first coherent thought that crosses her mind as her heart-rate slows back to normal.  The house, the women—and the fugitive, the man with the knife.</p>
<p>The man that she shot.</p>
<p>She swallows, hard, taking a few slow, deep breaths.  She was trained for this, trained to shoot without hesitation.  She does not regret doing what she was trained to do, to save lives.  She is willing to die with dignity and honor for the freedom and safety of the people she protects.</p>
<p>…So how, exactly, did she survive?</p>
<p><em>A dream</em>, her mind says.  It must have been a dream.</p>
<p>Except if it was a dream, then why would Dizzy and Jordan know about it?</p>
<p>And why would they be transferring her?</p>
<p>Why would her unit be staring at her with such mistrustful eyes, Dizzy scared and Jordan confused?</p>
<p>What the <em>hell</em> is going <em>on</em>?</p>
<p>She doesn’t know.  She doesn’t know, and as she climbs up into the vehicle that will transfer her to the medical facility in Germany, all she can think about is the taste of frigid salt water.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>North Korea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The brunt of the mission is quick.  In and out.  Human trafficking—never a pretty sight, and this particular operation is tied to local law enforcement.  The Old Guard manages to expose most of the pigs, unmasking them for the media and disrupting the trafficking chain as they go.  It’ll take a while for the whole thing to right itself, and by then the three of them will have finished picking off the last of the assholes who will inevitably evade prosecution.  They’ll be here another week or two, tops, and by the time they’re finished, the lockdown on international travel that the government put up in response to the whole thing should be loose enough for them to wriggle their way out undetected.  In the meantime, they’re safe-house hopping, changing location every few hours to keep under the radar. </p><p>It’s a game they’ve played before, many times.  They’ve perfected their formation, their living arrangements, in the way that only people who have been fighting and cohabiting together for centuries can.  They sleep in thirty minute shifts, taking turns whenever they can between cleaning weapons and tracking pigs and eating canned rations.  Quynh knows they can do this as long as they need to, as long as it takes—she’s seen Andy push them to do this for months at a time when necessary.  They are prepared to do this for a while.</p><p>Until the dream comes, anyway.</p><p>It’s sudden, when it arrives.  It slices through whatever else Quynh might have been dreaming like a blade through water, scorching through her mind’s eye.  A face, a knife, a spray of arterial blood from a throat slit open… and pain, fear, the gurgle of breath before it dies to nothing.  Hands, falling away.</p><p>Quynh jerks awake, the dream already beginning to fade.  She grasps for it the way a drowning man might grasp for the surface far above.  Unbidden, the memory of Joe sitting across a campfire from her, furiously scratching a drawing onto a scrap of parchment using a piece of charcoal as Nicolo leans over his shoulder, rises in her mind.  She tries to etch the images from the dream into the surface of her mind the same way that Joe would etch them onto paper.  He did it for Booker, centuries later—came to shore just long enough to send a messenger to the rest of them with the paper folded over and sealed in an envelope, to aid them in their search for the Frenchman, an answer to the question they hadn’t yet asked.  An apology for the answer he could not give.</p><p>Quynh swallows, slowly catching her breath as she raises her hands to her hair and pushes the strands loose from her bun back from her face.  Booker and Andy have both woken from sleep, as well.  She wonders idly if they are hurting for their missing pieces as much as she is.  Joe was always sharp, quick to jot down dreams before they were lost.  It was his quick thinking that helped them track down Booker, though it took them several decades to do it.  She wishes he were here now. </p><p>…She doesn’t allow herself the time to wish the same of Nicolo.</p><p>“A woman, dark skinned,” she says instead, breaking the strained silence.  When no one else goes to speak she screws up her face, trying to recall more.  “And… another person, lighter skin, in a helmet.”</p><p>Booker twitches, and runs his hand over his face.  He then reaches for his pocket, for the flask he keeps there.  When he raises it to his lips Quynh prods him, fingers sharp, until he winces and lowers it again.  “I saw…  part of a name tag,” he says, holding his thumb and finger up with his eyes squinted shut as if he can shape it with his mind, head bowed low.</p><p>Quynh squints as well, trying to think.  Shining metal, maybe aluminum, something lightweight and corrosion-resistant, if she had to guess.  Something modern, utilitarian.  “Free,” she says, after a moment.  “Free-something.”</p><p>“And a helicopter,” Booker says. </p><p>“Yes, yes, the medivac.  Something medical?  A medical team?  Coalition?” Quynh guesses.  She looks at Andy, but Andy is silent, frowning into the distance.  Quynh turns her attention back to Booker.  “The knife,” she says. </p><p>He groans, rubbing his hand over his throat, over the place the woman’s fatal wound was.  “I don’t know what exactly it was, but that shape was definitely middle eastern,” he says, and she can see the look in his eyes as he remembers the feeling of dying, of choking on the blood pouring from his-her-their throat.</p><p>Quynh nods.  Until now he was the youngest—this is the first time he’s felt a new death, the only one aside from Nicolo’s constant drowning that he’s dreamt.  He shudders where he sits, and she aches with sympathy.  It’s never pleasant, to feel a new one arrive.  She can feel it, too—that <em>agony-pain-fear-loss</em>—but she pushes past it, frowning and struggling to find the name of the blade.  “Not a khanjar… something Pashtun, maybe?”</p><p>Booker shrugs, frowning.  Quynh pushes harder, searching her vast memory for that shape, that distinctive shape, knowing she knows it but unable to place it until—</p><p>“Pesh-kabz.  Afghanistan,” Andy says, cutting across the two of them.  “She’s a marine.  Combat.  Or near combat-duty.”  She turns, a contemplative frown on her face, and Quynh can read the confusion there, the frustration and the conflict simmering under the surface. </p><p>Quynh purses her lips.  “Andy…” she says.</p><p>Andy shakes her head.  “…It’s been two hundred years,” she says.  “We went seven hundred before Booker showed up.  Why now?”</p><p>It’s the question of the millennium.  It seems like their existence has always circled around that question, that <em>why</em>, and never a good answer to be found.  They’ve spent long nights awake, staring up through camp smoke toward the stars, contemplating all the possibilities.  First Andromache, all alone, and then the two of them, together.  Others came and others went as they questioned their fates a hundred times, a thousand times, a million, a billion, and still found no reprieve from the echo of uncertainty.  The only thing that never faltered for Quynh was the fact that she could not die… and the fact that Andy would be there, by her side, so long as they both should live.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Quynh says, in response to Andy’s question.  She turns from Andy to Booker and back again, gritting her teeth.  “But we need to find her before someone else does.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I updated the tags so if you're sensitive to anything please take a look.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Germany, modern day</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Nile isn’t sure exactly what she expects from her transfer after her miraculous recovery.  The facility will probably be somewhat simple, she assumes—just somewhere that they can do a more complete assessment of her physical state.  You know.  To make sure she’s fit for combat.  A place where they can do some quick but in-depth tests and then send her right back in.  She watches out the windows as the truck takes them to a helicopter takes them to a private jet, and tries not to think about it.</p><p>It’s late evening when they set down.  The officers accompanying her have been strangely silent, never relaxing their rigid posture or uttering anything more than a ‘<em>no, thank you</em>’ to the stewardess when she came through with drinks.  Nile’s stomach is rumbling by the time they set foot on the tarmac, but she ignores it as she stands at attention before the senior officers, waiting for the flight crew to unload her bags from the plane. </p><p>They don’t.  Instead, a man in a white lab coat comes across the tarmac toward them, flanked by two security officers and holding a clipboard in his hand.  He nods to the senior military officers as he comes closer.</p><p>“This is her?” the man says in a heavy German accent, as soon as he’s close enough. </p><p>“Yes.  Corporal, this is Dr. Schröder,” says one of the senior officers, addressing Nile.  “You will be reporting to him for the duration of your stay.”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am,” Nile says, as the doctor nods, raising a hand in a little wave.  Nile salutes to the senior officers and steps back to allow them to pass her back to the plane.  She stays at attention, a little unnerved, as the doctor circles around her once, scribbling onto his clipboard as he goes.</p><p>He frowns.  “At ease,” he says, and waves a hand through the air.</p><p>Nile nods, falling into rest.  “My bags, sir?” she asks.</p><p>“Leave them,” he says, and waves another hand.  He really seems to like doing that.  “They’ll be taken care of.”</p><p>Nile nods.  Then she follows along as he gestures for her to come, taking her to a car waiting on the far side of the lot.  The security detail settles in behind her, and she wonders what they’re there to do.  She’s coming willingly—the sooner she does this the sooner she gets back to the front lines, to her duty.  It’s not like she’s going to fight.</p><p>They arrive at a nondescript building ten minutes later.  There are no identifying markers on the outside, just neatly trimmed hedges and a parking lot barely big enough for ten or so cars.  It doesn’t look new, but neither does it look particularly old.  The only thing of note on the outside is the high tech card reader and, once they open the front doors, the fact that there is a second set of doors, with a second card reader, just inside.</p><p>Nile looks around curiously as the second doors open at the doctor’s bidding.  The inside is clean and bright, polished to an unnatural shine.  Everything is white or chrome, including the uniforms of the staff who walk past.  The security detail is unobtrusively replaced by two different officers, this time in all white as well.  Nile glances up—there are more cameras pointed her way than she’s ever seen in her life.  She tries to keep the unease from creeping up the back of her neck.</p><p>A lady behind a white desk calls a greeting to Dr. Schröder as they come round an odd curved hallway to a lobby-like area.  “Here,” she says to Nile in heavily accented English, and hands a plastic bag over.</p><p>“These are your clothes.  The uniform won’t be necessary here,” Dr. Schröder says, and gestures with a hand to lead Nile down another hallway.  “You may change here.”</p><p>Nile swallows, entering the sterile room.  It’s barely more than a closet, nothing but a chrome bench on one side and bare brick walls, painted white.  She sets down the bag and quickly pulls out the clothes from it—clean and scentless white sweats, a soft sports bra, a white tank top, a pair of white socks, and some soft white slippers.  When she exits the room, her uniform folded military precise and her boots in hand, there is another woman waiting to take them.</p><p>Nile holds them out, and the woman takes them.  But she doesn’t turn away—instead she says something in German and gestures to Nile’s throat.</p><p>Dr. Schröder glances over.  “Ah.  Your necklace,” he says.</p><p>Nile’s hand flies to her throat, to the little gold cross that has accompanied her halfway across the world.  “My necklace?” she asks.</p><p>“Yes.  Unfortunately it is against policy to have jewelry here.  There are a few, erm… volatile patients who may try to steal it and use it as a weapon.”</p><p>“I…”  Nile swallows, looking helplessly between Dr. Schröder and the woman.  She hasn’t taken it off except to shower in years.  They can’t really mean that… can they?</p><p>“I’m sorry, but I must insist,” Dr. Schröder says.  He sounds apologetic.</p><p>“I’ll get it back when I leave, right?” Nile asks.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>Nile nods, and slowly unclasps the cross, laying it on top of her uniform.  Then, her heart heavy, she follows Dr. Schröder down yet another hallway.  This one she suspects is a residential wing, if the room with the bed and the minuscule bathroom that he opens for her are any indication.</p><p>“You’ve had a long day,” he says.  “You may rest an hour.  We’ll bring around dinner in fifteen minutes.  Usually you would get it at six, but you’ve arrived a little late today.”  He chuckles, though it wasn’t particularly funny.  He coughs.  Then he points to a plastic sign on the wall, plain white with black lettering.  It’s all in German.  “The schedule is here.  I assume you aren’t familiar with German?  No?  Well, you’ll pick it up soon enough.  Do you have any questions?”</p><p>Nile clears her throat, feeling a twitch under her skin.  “Will my mail be routed here?” she asks.</p><p>“Of course,” the doctor says.  “You will be provided with paper and pencils with which to write outbound mail.  All inbound mail comes on Monday.”</p><p>He smiles.  Nile nods.  All is quiet for a moment, and then…</p><p>“In this case we will see you in an hour!” the doctor says, and backs from the room.  He closes the door behind him.  There’s a click, the lock engaging. </p><p>There is no handle on the inside.</p><p>Taking a deep, calming breath, Nile settles herself down on her bed.  <em>This is fine</em>, she thinks.</p><p>True to their word, they bring her a bowl of soup some time later, a man carrying it in on a tray that he places on the little table beside the bed that is bolted to the wall.  There’s a security guard behind him, watching the entire interaction.  Nile eats in silence, wishing she had her headphones, but her things haven’t arrived yet.  She’s not sure they’ll let her have them even when they do.  She frowns, pulling at her tank top.  She feels… exposed.</p><p>The feeling only gets worse when, exactly an hour after she arrived, she’s escorted from her room by two of the security guards.  Everything here is so white, including the staff, that she feels out of place in her very skin.  It’s not a good feeling.</p><p>She gets to a medical room a few minutes later.  Dr. Schröder is already waiting, clipboard again in hand, again giving her a funny little wave.  “Excellent, excellent,” he says, and leads her to an exam table with a hand on her back.</p><p><em>Don</em><em>’t fight</em>, she tells herself, struggling to not shrug him off.  <em>Don</em><em>’t fight, just get through this</em>.</p><p>And she does.  She gets through the general physical, familiar from boot camp.  She allows Dr. Schröder to listen to her chest and peer in her ears and guide her through stretches.  There is a moment, when he reaches for her throat, that she twitches back—but his hands are gentle, if clinical, as they examine the place that the wound had been.</p><p>“Extraordinary,” he says.  Then he snaps his fingers and Nile feels hands grab her arms.</p><p>“Hey, what the—” she says, and then grunts as the security guards shove her onto her back on the exam table.  Her training kicks in and she throws her leg up, kneeing the one on the right in the chest, but there are more than she anticipated and two more come circling around to grab her legs, as well, as another replaces the one at her arm.  She grunts, yells, twists—but all it takes is a few quick movements and they have her restrained, limbs and chest and head bound to the table.  She’s immobilized before she can even really fight.</p><p>“My apologies for the restraints,” Dr. Schröder says, hand trailing through the air.  It lands on a tray beside him, picking up a hypodermic needle.  “But we can’t have you struggling.”</p><p>“What are you doing?!” Nile demands, as he raises the needle to her arm.  She strains against the restraints, panicked.</p><p>The doctor pulls back, just a little.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  Would you rather do this without anesthetic?” he asks.</p><p>“Do <em>what</em>?” Nile asks. </p><p>“The tests, of course.”  Dr. Schröder reaches forward again.  “This fascinating recovery of yours has piqued much interest—we need to see if your healing is as consistently <em>miraculous</em> for all wounds.”</p><p>Nile twitches back once again, jerking her arm as much as she can in the straps as the needle touches her skin.  “Don’t you <em>dare</em>,” she bites out, baring her teeth in a display that she hopes is as intimidating as it feels. </p><p>Dr. Schröder pulls back once more.  “I see.  You are a marine, hmm?  You are very strong to have made it through bootcamp.  It is probably an insult to numb the pain.  We will continue without the anesthesia.”</p><p>And then, before she even realizes that it’s in his hand, he raises a scalpel and carefully slices it down her exposed arm.</p><p>Nile yelps, partly from the fear and party from the unexpected pain.  It’s nothing like having her throat sliced open and yet everything like it all at once, except… except…</p><p>…except for the fact that the cut is already closing, right before her eyes. </p><p>She swallows down her cries, staring hard at her skin as it stitches itself together, becoming unbroken once more.  Then she raises her gaze to Dr. Schröder.  To the smile gracing his lips.  “Amazing,” he breathes.  Then he raises the scalpel again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I barely proofread this omfg.  I'm working on chapter nine right now and I don't want to look back, haha.  </p><p>Cheers!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>North Korea, modern day</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It doesn’t take much to speed the mission along and hunt down the last of the pigs.  Just a few dedicated hours of tracking, chasing, and killing and they’re good to go.  Getting past the border before the lockdown is lifted, on the other hand, turns out to be exactly as much of a hassle as Andy knew it would be.  And no, this is not just because she has to smile for the officials at the airport to match the photograph on the forged travel papers that Booker cooked up for them. </p>
<p>She is still pissed, and rightfully so, when the smile doesn’t work and they’re stopped before they can board the plane by a bunch of stoic North Korean security officers.  So close and yet so far.</p>
<p>“Here we go,” Booker mutters in French, sighing.  He hauls his duffel bag up higher on his shoulder, turning away.  Andy, beside him, hums contemplatively and steps aside.  In her place Quynh steps up, her own smile only stretching wider across her face.</p>
<p>“Is there a problem?” she asks, in what would have been picture perfect Korean some hundred years back.</p>
<p>“Yes,” one of the officers says, frowning at the quality of her speech.  He is clearly not comprehending the pile of shit he’s just stepped in.  “I’m sorry, but you can’t leave.  No planes are to take off from this airport until the international travel ban has been—”</p>
<p>Quynh cuts across him.  “And we understand.  The lockdown is a matter of national security.  But as we explained to the officials at the desk, we have diplomatic permission from the administration to leave the country.”</p>
<p>The man scoffs.  “No one has diplomatic permission to leave.”</p>
<p>“Ask your superiors, they will tell you.  We’ll wait.”</p>
<p>Andy swallows down a smirk at the look of uncertainty that crosses the man’s face as he glances around at his fellow officers.  Quynh is still smiling, sweet but with an edge to it sharper than any blade—she’s pulling her punches, playing with her food, but if this drags on she will most certainly <em>stop</em> pulling punches, and that edge is a promise that it won’t be pretty when she does.</p>
<p>“…I’m sorry, ma’am, but my orders are clear,” the man says.</p>
<p>“Are they?” Quynh asks, smile unwavering.  “Are you willing to bet your job on that?”</p>
<p>The officer sets his jaw, staring her down.  Quynh stares back, unflinching, as she waits.  They stay like this for a long moment, a battle of wills—but Quynh is more stubborn than just about anyone Andy has ever known, except maybe herself.  In the end, there’s no contest to be had.  The man huffs, clearly unwilling to bet his job, and just like that Andy knows they’ve won.  The officer radios his superiors, who then find the message that Booker left for them, and that is that.  Quynh smiles the entire way up the ramp.</p>
<p>“You can thank me at your leisure,” Booker says in English, settling into one of the plush seats and spreading his long legs out in front of him.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Booker,” Quynh says.  He grunts and fails to pull away in time as she leans over and plants a wet kiss on his cheek.</p>
<p>Andy snorts, watching out the window as the runway begins to inch away under the wheels of the plane.  “We’ll have enough time to get off the ground before the virus activates, won’t we?” she asks.  She knows a lot of things, but hacking is not really part of her repertoire.  Well, not that kind of hacking, anyway.  She generally doesn’t like it when Booker does it, either—relying on something to erase their presence after it’s been digitally recorded is a massive risk when they could just fly under the radar to begin with.  But desperate times make for desperate immortals, and thus she relented.  Just this once.</p>
<p>Booker hums at her question.  “Should.  The virus activates ten minutes after it’s opened.”</p>
<p>Andy nods.  Then she settles back, feeling the plane pick up pace beneath her.  Faster and faster they go, the sound of the engines rising to a dull roar.  She tucks her chin and allows her eyes to ease closed—not all the way, never all the way, but just far enough to allow her to doze for a bit.  The other two will watch for trouble and wake her if they find any.</p>
<p>The dream comes as soon as she drifts off, as if it were lying in wait.  They’re getting clearer, cleaner—the trail of breadcrumbs is becoming more consistent.  Andy settles in a little further, allowing it to wash over her.  She’s like a bloodhound, nose to the ground.  It’s been nearly twelve hours since the new one’s death, and they need to get to her sooner rather than later.</p>
<p>The dream starts suddenly, as if the moment Andy dropped off the new one on the other end of the link jerked awake.  She’s lying on an exam table, all chilled metal and soft, secure restraint straps.  The room is cold, sterile—white walls and white floors and no windows to speak of.  There are two guards in the corner, who haven’t yet noticed that she’s awake.</p>
<p>“—just saying, that’s a hell of a coincidence,” says one.  His English is American, of the kind that speaks of long military career and a dishonorable discharge.</p>
<p>Across the room, the new immortal jerks one hand, testing the restraints.</p>
<p>“Yeah, but port towns always have those kinds of stories,” says the other guard.  “Ghost tales and mirages or whatever.  They have the same shit all over England.”</p>
<p>A second jerk, affirming what the first told her—she’s bound too tight to get free.</p>
<p>“But maybe they’re not mirages.  Maybe the people just don’t know what they’re seeing.  No, no—listen, okay.  What if… it’s all one guy?  One guy like her?”</p>
<p>The words filter in, distant.  She’s more concerned with getting out of here.  Because there has to be a way.  There has to be a way to get free.  There has to be—</p>
<p>“So you think there’s some freak who can’t die just… sailing the seas out there?”</p>
<p>—there.  There’s a tray at her side, filled with all the instruments they’ve been using on her.  If she can just—</p>
<p>“What else could it be?” </p>
<p>—reach one, she’ll be out of here in no time.  Just gotta cut one of the bonds—</p>
<p>“You’re nuts.”</p>
<p>—and then slowly reach for the others—</p>
<p>“Clearly not!  Not with <em>that</em> one over—hey, what are you doing?”</p>
<p>—ah, <em>shit</em>.  A curse, and she throws caution to the wind, beginning to hack at the strap with the scalpel she just barely managed to nab.  Adrenaline has flooded her system, and as it does she feels as if time is slowing down, as if the world is narrowing around her.  The scalpel slips and nearly digs into her wrist from the awkward angle she’s holding it but she can’t lose focus, not now, or she loses everything—</p>
<p>—and just like that the band snaps.  She raises her eyes to find the guards racing across the room, the first nearly close enough to grab for her.  She doesn’t have full motion of her arm even without the restraint on her wrist, because there’s another on her bicep, but she still snarls and brandishes the scalpel like that’ll do any good.  She swings it around and jabs at the hands that are attempting to grab her.  She might not be getting out, but like hell is she just going to sit back and let them—</p>
<p>—and just like that, there’s a rattle, like a plane jerking.  Andy’s eyes fly open, acclimating in seconds to the downward motion of the aircraft. </p>
<p>Wait.  Downward motion?  They shouldn’t be going down yet.  “The fuck?” she asks, turning toward Quynh and Booker. </p>
<p>“Was just about to wake you,” Quynh says, peering out the window.  “Pilot’s gotten the smart idea to land early.”</p>
<p>“Were you dreaming, boss?” Booker asks, as Andy shoves herself to her feet.  “New girl?”</p>
<p>Andy nods, checking her gun.  “Yeah.  They’ve got her in a lab already.  She’s got spunk, though—stabbed a guard with a scalpel just before I woke.”</p>
<p>Booker laughs.  “You think she has potential?”</p>
<p>“I think we’re going to find out soon,” Andy says, and then forces her way into the cockpit to ‘talk’ with the pilot, gun raised.</p>
<p>“I was told to land over the radio!” he says, whimpering, in response to her (slightly more modern) Korean.  He doesn’t raise his hands from the death grip he has on the controls.  “They said land or they’re going to blow us out of the sky!”</p>
<p>Andy rolls her eyes toward the ceiling.  Of course.  She huffs to herself and starts doing some quick calculations—hacking might not be her thing but she’s fairly well versed in ground-to-air missiles.  Enough to know that there’s a fair chance these guys aren’t bluffing, and also that they don’t have time to get blown to smithereens today.</p>
<p>She turns as Quynh comes into the cockpit behind her.  “You’re not going to shoot the nice pilot man, are you?” Quynh asks, sounding reproachful.</p>
<p>Andy hums, looking instead down toward the tarmac far below as it begins to come clear.  “Not today,” she says.  She squints, leaning down past the pilot, who twitches away from her.  There is a small army of people, probably local military, waiting to advance on their craft.  “I’m thinking… Berlin ‘44.”</p>
<p>“Not London ‘46?” Quynh asks, squinting as well. </p>
<p>Andy clicks her tongue, watching as the ground comes up toward them.  “Actually, you know what?  You’re right.  I’ve changed my mind.  London ‘46 it is.”</p>
<p>“Oh, good.  I like London ‘46,” Quynh says, grinning a feral sort of grin.</p>
<p>“Don’t I know it,” Andy says, grinning back. </p>
<p>For a moment it’s just the two of them.  Like they are the last two people left on earth, Andy and Quynh, forever until the end.</p>
<p>Then, of course, Booker pokes his head in, bursting their little bubble.  “Guys, plan?” he says. </p>
<p>Andy relays it to him, pushing past to grab her things.  Backpack, labrys, guns… set.  She breathes out, watching the landing strip widen as they grow nearer and nearer.</p>
<p>It’s time to raise some hell.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Guess who forgot what friday meant lmfao OTL.  Why did no one remind me to post I'm laughing.  Also... just putting some feelers out there... if anyone does any beta reading and would like to beta the next few chapters that would be fantastic.  I tried asking in a discord and no one was interested, haha.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A special thanks to @gaydaractivate04 for the beta work!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Still North Korea, modern day.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Booker huffs in air, a valiant attempt to catch his breath.  He’s not out of shape, but neither is he superman—not like Andy and Quynh seem to be.  The two of them will go and just keep going, leaving Booker behind feeling like a little kid.  He tries to catch up but they’re always far beyond reach, moving in tandem like only the two of them can, so utterly out of his league that he has absolutely no hope of catching up as they push each other closer and closer to the impossible.  It’s painful, honestly.  And what’s worse is the fact that they <em>know</em> how much he struggles to keep up.</p>
<p>“Doing alright back there, Book?” Andy asks, on the tail end of the London ‘46 maneuver, once they’ve neutralized all the muscle waiting for them on the tarmac.  She’s covered nearly head to toe in blood and guts, and seems all the wilder for it. </p>
<p>Booker spits—he’s not doing much better on the guts front, really.  He doesn’t bother responding except to grunt, waiting for his arm to pop back into its socket.  It does a moment later, locking in with an audible <em>crack</em>.</p>
<p>Quynh hums, appraising.  “I think that went well,” she says, swiping a hand across her cheek.  She peers around the side of the building.  “Docks are that way, yes?”</p>
<p>“Sure are,” Andy says, and reaches out a hand to pull what might be a piece of a vertebrae out of Quynh’s hair.  “We’re making a break for that truck in three… two… <em>one</em>…”</p>
<p>In sync the two of them dash out into the open around the front of the building, Booker following just a fraction of a second behind.  He slams into the backseat of the truck in question, gun raised just in case there are any personnel they missed in their rampage.  There are none.  At least none willing to face the same fate that so many of their coworkers did.  Smart bastards.</p>
<p>They pull over into an alleyway some distance from the docks, taking care to avoid the streetlights and stay under the cover of darkness on their way, and make a quick attempt to clean up a little as Andy’s sharp eyes examine the docks.  Stowing away on a ship is their less-preferred method of escaping a country on lockdown, especially since they’re on the wrong side of the country to sail West toward China and eventually Afghanistan, but they don’t have a choice at this point.  They just have to hope that there’s a ship already willing to break lockdown that they can smuggle themselves onto. </p>
<p>“See one?” Booker asks, watching Andy as she watches the ships. </p>
<p>She hums.  “That one.  That’s our best bet,” she says, and points to a fairly small cargo ship.  There’s no indication from the outside that it’s planning to set sail but Andy must have seen something, and Booker has learned to trust her instincts.  They are, generally speaking, unerring. </p>
<p>Booker bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to feel bitter about that.  If only they’d taken the job with Copley, they wouldn’t be here right now worrying about getting out of this hellhole.  He’s not naive enough to think that Merrick and his doctors would have found a way to kill them already, but at least there would be progress.  At least he’d have something to look forward to.</p>
<p>But there’s nothing he can do about that now.  Not until they get the hell out of here.  He can try again, he can find a way to get them to Copley, to Merrick—he just needs a little time to get this shit figured out.  Too many variables right now.  They need to get this sorted.</p>
<p>He sighs, letting out a French curse under his breath.  Then he finishes stripping off his bloody outer shirt and nods, allowing Andy to lead the way to the ship.</p>
<p>They manage to smuggle themselves down below decks with no major problems.  The cargo hold is, just as Andy predicted, full of exactly the kind of shit that you don’t want the officials to see.  They’re clearly planning to break lockdown to get it out of the country.  Which is fine.  Sometimes you gotta work with people you don’t want to eat with, as Andy is always saying.  As long as it gets them out of this damn country Booker doesn’t give a <em>shit</em>.  Short of human trafficking or child porn, Booker just doesn’t have it in himself to care. </p>
<p>It’s a bad sign, he’s sure—there’s probably something about apathy being a harbinger of doom in the psychology magazines that Quynh always seems to find at convenience stores, the ones that she leaves lying around as if he or Andy will crack one open.  But right now?  Right now he’s gross and exhausted and he hasn’t had a chance to refill his flask in at least eight hours so excuse him if he’s not a perfect ray of sunshine.  He waits until he hears the anchor getting winched up before he lets his limbs go loose, the weight of the world on his shoulders.</p>
<p>Quynh, on the other hand, only perks up as the ship begins to move.  “Hey, I had a thought,” she says, speaking in English. </p>
<p>Booker grunts, leaving it to Andy to provide actual conversation.  Andy does, wiping off her labrys on a (decently) clean spot on her pants.  “What thought is that?” she asks.</p>
<p>“If the new girl is dreaming us right now, then maybe she saw London ‘46.  She’s learning our battle strategies before she’s even met us.”</p>
<p>Andy pauses her wiping, considering.  Then she lets out a laugh, the low, carefree one that only Quynh ever seems to draw out of her.  “She better be paying attention, there’s going to be a quiz when we find her,” she says, and smiles over at Quynh, who only grins back. </p>
<p>It’s cute, sappy as hell, and Booker can’t help it when he groans.  “Leave me out of this,” he says, more about their gooey eyes than about their jokes, and shuffles onto his side.  He pulls his beanie down over his eyes, wishing he had some alcohol, any alcohol, to dull the ache only growing in his chest.  He’s so done with these two, jesus <em>christ</em>.  They’re not going to be able to return to this part of the world for at least three decades after this just to escape the miasma of love these two exude.</p>
<p>“Aw, come on, Booker,” Quynh says, nudging his back.  “It’s funny and you know it.”</p>
<p>He raises one hand just far enough to point a middle finger up.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>As much as he wants to, Booker doesn’t manage to sleep much on the ship.  His dreams are sharp, sharper than they usually are—white walls and needles and water, water, water, briny and thick as it pours down his throat.  He wakes and automatically reaches for his flask.  Still empty.  He sighs.</p>
<p>They make it to Russia in good time, and manage to sneak off the ship without any major casualties.  From Russia they then find an Ethiopian pilot willing to fly them to Egypt, and a Russian pilot in Egypt willing to fly them to Afghanistan.  It’s more roundabout than Andy wants, but it’s the best they can do on short notice. </p>
<p>The good news is that there’s vodka on the last leg of their flight, which Booker gladly partakes of.  The bad news?  Well.</p>
<p>“Motherfucking <em>shit</em>,” Andy says, after they break into the CO’s tent of the first marine outpost they find.  There’s only one marine out in this part of the world that matches the description they’re after, and she’s already been transfered.  Booker grunts, getting to work hacking her records to find where she was taken—they’re encrypted to hell and back, clearance <em>high as fuck</em>.  It’s going to be hell trying to scramble those and wreck the digital trail once they have her.</p>
<p>“…Germany,” Booker says, after too long, sitting back.  He frowns at the screen—maybe he can get a message to Copley to meet them there.</p>
<p>Or maybe not.  It’s too high risk, Andy is on high alert.  She’d notice him sending out a message now.  “Pack your bags, kids, we’re going to Germany,” she says, and they’re off once again.</p>
<p>It takes another chunk of <em>too fucking long</em> to reach Germany, another plane ride that would have shaved decades from Booker’s life if he were mortal.  No one sleeps this time around, too jittery to really rest.  Andy has started pacing, like she always does when people get too close on their tail.  She knows the world today, how hard it is to keep under the radar—every second that they have to wait to retrieve this new immortal is another second of footage that they’re going to have to find and obliterate.  Their secret is precariously close to being revealed to the world, and that is Andy’s worst fear—because of what happened to Nicolo, Booker knows.  Her greatest fear is what happened to Nicolo happening to Quynh.</p>
<p>Booker takes another swallow of vodka, watching picturesque landscapes soar past the window as they descend. </p>
<p>They reach the facility where the marine was contained some thirty hours after they first dreamed of her.  The keyword there?  Was.  By the time they arrive, she’s disappeared.  Well, not ‘disappeared’ per se—she’s broken out, leaving behind a veritable mess. </p>
<p>“Mother<em>fucker</em>,” Andy says from a few buildings over, watching through a pair of binoculars as private security crawls all over the damn place.  She then complements the <em>motherfucker</em> with a host of other swears and curses from various languages, a couple of which are so long dead that she may very well be the only human being who speaks them.</p>
<p>Quynh puckers her lips.  “I’m thinking… Cairo ‘97?” she says.</p>
<p>“Already calling in the bomb threat,” Andy says, and true to form raises her burner phone to her ear as she speaks.</p>
<p>Booker sighs.  Then he heads outside to see if he can siphon some gas from one of the cars in the lot.  They have a lot of work ahead of them, not the least of which is burning down the building and all the samples and files inside it before all that information gets into the wrong hands.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm trying to be consistent with posting I swear OTL.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey!  Another shoutout to @gaydaractivate04, for so many good notes on the next few chapters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Germany, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nile doesn’t know when she started believing in the stories.  Somewhere between the extraordinarily vivid dreams of a lone man on a ship and the conversation between the guards at the facility about the local legends of a sailor who never dies, she thinks.  There’s a possibility that she’s losing her mind, but something—maybe the pain of a scalpel biting into her skin—tells her that this is real.  Realer than she wants it to be, at any rate.</p><p>Getting out of the facility is simpler than she hoped it would be.  All she had to do was play docile—act meek, like she’d learned her lesson about fighting.  Then she’d put on her best pitiful act, all fake tears and everything, about wanting to go out and spend a few minutes in the sun and <em>oh can</em><em>’t we please go outside for just a little teeny bit</em>?</p><p>She suspects Dr. Schröder could see through it, in all honesty.  She’s never been all that great at acting, and for all the man’s awkwardness and his funny little waves he had a shrewd mind, the kind of shrewdness that hardly missed a thing.  She wasn't expecting to win at a game of wits.  She expected to get strapped down tighter than ever, Dr. Schröder smiling that chilling smile down at her, really.  Still, she had to give it a shot, and she made sure to pull her act in front of a few of the nurses, doing her best to play on their sympathy and backing Dr. Schröder into a corner as she went.  It was a challenge.  Let her out, or give up the facade that they weren’t holding her hostage.</p><p>He chose to let her out.</p><p>He was probably banking on the security guards being able to contain her, she thinks, kneeling under a bridge as she waits for the sun to finish sinking behind the horizon.  Men, ugh.  If she had a dollar for every time some man underestimated her she’d be a rich, rich woman.  Of course, there’s something to be said about superhuman healing, as well—a hit from a club still hurts, but the sting fades so much faster for her than it did for the assholes who were trying to contain her, giving her a crucial advantage.  A few minutes fighting, a few good hits, and they were unconscious, the good doctor cowering in the bushes out in front of the building. </p><p><em>Serves him right</em>, she thinks, peering out past the bridge supports.  And all she has to do now is evade recapture.  Because if there’s one thing that’s been made clear, it’s that the US military—and, by extension, anyone working with them—is not acting in her best interest.</p><p>Her first order of business is to clean up a bit.  She does so after encountering what looks like a residential suburb, all white houses and red roofs neatly lined up along a small street.  She washes off with a hose at the side of a house, careful of the noise.  Once satisfied, she sets off on her next order of business: finding some clothes that aren’t the dirtied up white sweats and ripped, bloody white tank top that's all but hanging off of her.  </p><p>That, too, she does.  There’s a clothesline out in someone’s backyard—she steals a damp dress three sizes too big off the line, and some large muddy boots from next to the back door, under the cover of darkness.  In minutes she’s ripped the hem off the bottom of the dress and cinched it around her waist in a makeshift belt.  She examines herself in the window of a car some ways down—not too shabby.  The dress even has pockets, praise be.  She frowns, focusing on her reflection.  Her braids are distinctive, but maybe she can… ah.  There.</p><p>She adjusts the second strip of fabric, tying it like a bandanna around her head.  It isn’t much but it’ll do something.  And now the dress is a fashionable length instead of swishing about around her shins.  Nice. </p><p>She pauses a moment more.  Her throat looks so bare without her cross… but there’s nothing else she can do now.  She shakes herself out of it and moves on to her second order of business—to get to the coast.  She’s looking for a ship, and that ship is on water, and that may be as far as she’s gotten but it’s a start, at least.</p><p>She learns, after communicating with a store owner using a series of rather silly pantomimes, that she’s in a place called Bielefeld.  Not Landstuhl, as she’d been told.  Still Germany, but definitely <em>not</em> where they said they were transferring her.  She frowns, hunching over the little map that the store owner found for her, standing in a far corner of the store that isn’t visible from the windows.  It may be dark out but she has no idea who is looking for her or which direction they’ll be coming from.  Better safe than sorry. </p><p>There are two separate German coasts.  One at the <em>Nordsee</em>—North Sea, maybe?—and one at the <em>Ostsee</em>.  She focuses a moment on the strange dreams she remembers—<em>brown hands with two silver rings on the fingers, guiding the wheel of a ship</em>—before she picks the North Sea at random.  It’s as good a place to start as any, she figures.  It takes a matter of minutes before she has a route, an alternate route, and a plan C route memorized.  She glances around before she swiftly pockets a pair of the cheapest sunglasses she can find and a tube of pink lipstick.  She hates to steal—god, if her mother could see her right now she’d be having a <em>fit</em>—but she doesn’t have any money.  She’ll find a way to make it up to the store owner later, she promises, touching the spot at her throat where her cross usually hangs.  Then she hands the map back, smiling and repeatedly saying her thanks as she backs out the door.</p><p>Money is going to be her biggest obstacle, she figures, as she sneaks around the back of the building to contemplate her next move.  She has a direction, but she needs transportation.  Sustenance.  She’ll need to sleep, too, at some point.  She’s roughed it before—in bootcamp and in Afghanistan—so she’s not particularly worried about that, especially because the night is still warm around her, but everything else?  Surviving without connections in a country whose language she doesn’t even speak?  Yeah, that’s a big old <em>yikes</em> from her.</p><p>She wonders, for a moment, if she can just… call her mom to ask for help.  There has to be a phone open to the public somewhere around here—but no.  They might be tracing her mom’s calls.  She can’t get her family involved in this.  It’s too crazy.  This whole thing with coming back to life and superhuman healing and getting experimented on and suddenly being stranded in Germany with the US military after her, it’s just—it’s too much.  She’s on her own.</p><p>Except.  Maybe.  If she’s very, very lucky… and this isn’t all some weird hallucination… some fantasy her mind has spun up due to whatever they’re doing to her in that damn facility… then there’s also the man on the ship.</p><p>If he exists, if he’s a real person who can be found, then let it be known that she’s going to find him.</p><p>***</p><p>It’s early the next morning when she catches her first real break.  She’s been walking along the highway all night, keeping a safe distance from the road itself to make sure that no one untoward spots her.  The sun is rising now, however, and she’s weighed her options—her best bet is to stop at the gas station on her left and see if she can buy a bit of food with the handful of coins that she’s found as she walked.  She has no idea what the exchange rate is or even what currency the Germans use but it’s worth a shot, she thinks.</p><p>This is when it happens.  She’s just purchased a small bag of chips and a cheap bottle of water when a large SUV pulls up in front of the store.  A family of tourists piles out and begins wandering about, buying snacks and hogging the bathroom and snapping pictures of the sunrise and, praise be, speaking English, albeit with thick southern accents. </p><p>“Excuse me!” Nile says, hurrying over and putting on her best British accent.  She winces at herself—add deceit to the list of sins she’s committed in the last twenty-four hours.  Oh, well.  “Oh, do wait up—I’ve been trying to find someone who can speak English all morning.  Could you perhaps help me?”</p><p>Using every last drop of charisma that she has in her body, Nile spins a tale about getting separated from her husband on a train heading south.  By the time she managed to get off she was horribly lost, and, to make matters worse, had misplaced her purse somewhere along the way and <em>would they please, please help a poor woman out of a tough situation</em>?</p><p>She’s angling for some money, maybe enough to actually ride a train in the first place.  What she doesn’t count on is for the southern hospitality to kick in—the mother takes one look at her and the trembling lip that she’s not entirely sure is just for show and bundles her up into the SUV, cooing over her the entire way and offering everything from a fresh cup of convenience store coffee to a phone to use to call her husband to a pillow to <em>try and get a little sleep, you look so worn out dear, don</em><em>’t argue now</em>.</p><p>Nile accepts the phone and the pillow, calling a random number and faking a message on someone’s voicemail.  She then settles in next to the kids in the back, one about seven and humming along to the radio and one about fourteen and reading a very thick book.  She tries to sleep, she does, but as the SUV bumps along up the highway she instead finds herself thinking about a poem she read once in high school English class.  The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, she thinks it was called.  It was about a sailor who shot down an albatross, and thus was cursed by Death itself to never die and always wander, telling his tale to anyone who would listen, forever and ever and ever. </p><p>It’s a striking tale, and even more so now that Nile finds herself searching for a sailor who is said to have lived longer than any human being should ever live.  She wonders for a moment if she, herself, has been marked, claimed, by some supernatural force.  If this is a curse, laid upon her head because of some mistake she made… if her resurrection wasn’t divine but rather was brought down on her by her own folly… she swallows.  What if she can’t find this sailor, this man on a ship that she dreams of?  What if it IS all a hallucination?  If she falls asleep right now and wakes in that damn lab… god.  She doesn’t know what she’d do.</p><p>Forever is an awfully long time, especially to be alone. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Off the coast of Denmark, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Joe realizes that the new girl is heading his way, he sits up in his bunk on the <em>Costante</em> with his head in his hands and takes a long, fraught moment to curse the fact that she chose to try and find him rather than Andy and the others.  Because of course she did.  First new immortal in two hundred years and instead of going for the people who can actually <em>help her,</em> she’s decided to make a break for the coast and the vast, unforgiving expanse of the North Sea.</p>
<p>For a long moment, Joe contemplates leaving her to flounder.  He’s already sent Booker a handful of drawings of the dreams he’s had—he’s done his due diligence.  Maybe she’ll find a boat that can take her to him or maybe she won’t, but either way she doesn’t have to be his problem.  Let her struggle.  Let her fight.  God knows he’s done enough of that, himself, the last nine hundred years.</p>
<p><em>You don</em><em>’t mean that</em>.</p>
<p>“Maybe I do,” Joe says aloud, annoyed.  But as willing as he is to argue with the little voice in his head that used to be his conscience, he can’t argue the fact that Nicolo wouldn’t have left her alone.  Not like this.  Not without good reason.  For betrayal, maybe.  For breaking his trust—not this.  There is nothing ‘good’ about making up excuses and refusing to help someone who is in need of it.  And after everything… god, even after <em>everything,</em> Nicolo would understand.  Joe can hear his voice even now, soft Genoese murmuring that <em>she needs you, Yusuf</em>.  Nicolo has waited five hundred years—it won’t kill him, at least not for good, to wait a few days more. </p>
<p>Even if it feels all that time like Joe is drowning, too.</p>
<p>Joe sighs, pushing his fingers into his hair and yanking at the knots.  It’s getting long—he’s due for a cut.  He puts that on the long list of things that require his attention, sighs again, and hauls himself out of bed. </p>
<p>The galley, approximately two steps out of the minuscule cabin, is ready and waiting when he arrives.  He sets some coffee brewing, shoving an old piece of stale toast that he left from breakfast yesterday into his mouth as he goes.  Then it’s to the engine room, checking that everything is in order and getting the diesel engines started before he heads up to set a course to… hm. </p>
<p>He studies the massive map hanging on the wall, absently turning on one of the three sonar machines as he goes.  He thinks he dreamt of a highway sign that said… ah, yes, here it is.  Nienburg.  There are several major roads that head north from there but most of them meet up with the A27, which should, if she follows it, bring her to the coastal town of Cuxhaven.</p>
<p>He hums, considering.  It’s been a while since he stopped in Cuxhaven.  He’s been keeping mostly to the Frisian Front this decade, which means more stops in the Netherlands as he heads South toward France.  He’s been down this way before, of course—he’s been diving down here since the 17th century—but there’s only so much you can do with a diving bell and no real light source.  This is his first pass of this part of the North Sea using modern sonar imaging.  Sonar has its glitches, but it’s miles ahead of feeling around in the murk with your own two hands.</p>
<p>Less chance you’ll get the bends, too.  Win win, really. </p>
<p>“Okay… heading set,” Joe mutters, squinting out at the sea.  The sun is just cresting the horizon, a few distant clouds lit from below in orange and gold.  It’s the kind of sunrise that makes Joe long for someone to share it with.  Not just anyone, though—he knows who he wants by his side.  Who would love a sunrise like this. </p>
<p>He takes a deep breath, the familiar hole from where his heart was torn from his chest bleeding freely.  “Soon,” he says, low and firm.  “You’ll get back to your search soon.  Focus on what you’re doing, get it done, and then you’ll be right back at it.  One step at a time.”</p>
<p>And then he grits his teeth, nods, and does exactly that, his hands sure at the helm.  A twitch to the right, a nudge to the left… he moves the boat easily through the water, guiding it straight and true.  As he goes, he cracks open Booker’s latest data packet, running it through the decryption software that Booker sent with the one before that.  It’s easy and simple, the motions of it all as much ingrained in his daily schedule as breathing is, as much a part of him now as his love for Nicolo.  Life on the sea, he thinks sometimes, suits him better than fighting ever did.</p>
<p>It’s a bittersweet sort of a thought.  To think that Nicolo’s torment, his torture, has any upsides at all is… it hurts, he won’t lie.  But if Joe is forced to search for five hundred… a thousand… two thousand years… at least he knows he’s good at it.  He may be alone eleven months out of the year, may be at the mercy of the seas and the skies, may be in more pain than any human was meant to handle, but the <em>Costante</em>… it’s almost more of a home than anywhere else he’s ever been.  Except, perhaps, for those nights so long ago that he spent with Nicolo in his arms.</p>
<p>Joe sighs.  “…Let’s not think about that,” he says to himself, allowing himself to be distracted as the decryption software pings to let him know that it’s finished its task.  He begins to swipe through the data, keeping a cursory eye on the horizon and one on the sonar, mostly out of habit.  Weather forecast, weather forecast, news of the wreck of an advanced U-boat from world war two salvaged just to the West of him, weather forecast, updates on the bombings in Syria, notice of the team taking a mission in North Korea and a possibility that they won’t be in contact for a while, and… Joe snorts.  There’s also a youtube link to the latest game, embedded in the middle of a very boring looking analysis of ocean algae.  Fucking Booker, honestly.  He only hides the game like that when Joe’s team wins, the dick.  Joe shakes his head.  Then he pulls out the old, yellowed keyboard attached to the computer and begins writing a message to send back.</p>
<p>“You… owe… me… dinner,” he says, peck-typing the words as he goes.  “No… fish… this… time… <em>asshole</em>.”  He writes a few more lines about his location and destination, mentioning that he’s on his way toward the newbie, before he encrypts the message and sends it out.  Booker will get it by the time they’re done in North Korea—they can’t risk detection so the messages go through several proxies, pinging around the internet for a while to confuse anyone looking too closely before they arrive at their destination.  Joe personally thinks it’s a little much, but Andy hates the fact that they have to communicate digitally at all and thus they’ve created this system to be as non-traceable as humanly possible. </p>
<p>It could be worse.  This whole situation, really, could be worse.  Joe just has to keep his chin up, his hands steady.  He just has to keep going.</p>
<p>As he’s done for the last five hundred years. </p>
<p>As he’ll do for a millennium, two millennia, three millennia, more. </p>
<p>He will do this until he’s sailed to the ends of the earth and back.</p>
<p>As long as it takes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hue hue hue.  Bet you were wondering when Joe was going to show up again &gt;:D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A27, Germany, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nile Freeman—now Henrietta Coldwater—is still with the family of tourists an hour later as they take the scenic route up the Weser River to Bremerhaven.  It’s only about three hours drive from Bielefeld to Cuxhaven, the first coastal city that came to mind when pressed, but the Tanner family has been more than accommodating.  Nile sits politely in the back of the car with a book that Mrs. Tanner told her she’d just <em>adore</em>, pretending to read as she watches the road signs pass by from the corner of her eye. </p><p>It may not be wise to stay with the same people for an extended length of time, but they don’t seem to have any idea that her story is a lie and Nile has committed at this point.  It’s a long one, this game she’s playing—she may have absolutely no idea what she’s doing but mama didn’t raise a quitter, damnit.</p><p>They stop for lunch at a small cafe across from the river delta, ships drifting past a few scattered high rise buildings.  It’s picturesque, beautiful, but in a strangely distant way, like Nile is viewing a postcard of somewhere scenic.  Nile chalks the underwhelming reality of the place up to her own desire to just—freaking—<em>move</em>.  She’s chafing at the slow, sedate pace they’re setting.  Who knows how close her pursuers are?  Who knows when they’ll catch up?  It’s harrowing, being caught between Henrietta’s new friends, with their touristy picture-taking, and Nile’s desperate need to put distance between herself and that godforsaken lab.</p><p>“Don’t you worry, Etta, sweetheart, we’ll be there soon enough,” Mrs. Tanner says, giving her a pat on the elbow.  She’s obviously caught on to the roiling unease growing under Nile’s skin.  “You should call your husband again after lunch.  That will make you feel better.”</p><p>Nile nods, trying on a smile that she hopes looks the correct amount of anxious to talk to her ‘husband’.  She isn’t sure how much longer she can fake a relationship with an answering machine, honestly—hopefully long enough to get her where she needs to go.  Assuming that’s where she needs to be at all and there aren’t more torments waiting for her there.</p><p>She sighs.  Then she swallows her anxiety and settles in for lunch, allowing Mr. Tanner to order for her in his halting (but ever-enthusiastic) German.  They’re just digging in, food sitting warm in front of them, when Mrs. Tanner sighs and smacks the teenager with a napkin.  “Molly, don’t eavesdrop,” she says, frowning.</p><p>Molly rolls her eyes.  “What am I supposed to do?  I’m not allowed to read at the table.”</p><p>Nile glances over at the two old men out on the patio with them that Molly is apparently listening in on—they look like they might be fisherman, the kind who live all their lives with one foot on land and one on their boat.  “Can you understand them?” Nile asks in her fake British accent. </p><p>“Yeah, mostly,” Molly says, and stabs at her food.  “I’m taking German in school.  They’re talking about some ghost or something.”</p><p>A ghost, huh?  Nile frowns, listening for a moment… but all she can make out is something something <em>geist</em>. </p><p>“Are you interested in that sort of thing?” Mrs. Tanner asks, calling Nile’s attention back to the table.</p><p>“My husband is,” Nile says, thinking fast.  “He’s just <em>fascinated</em> by the local legends about the ghost sailor.  Have you heard anything about that?”</p><p>“Can’t say we have,” Mr. Tanner says, exchanging a look with his wife.  Then he beckons Molly and Nile up, standing and heading over to the men. </p><p>“Dad, no—” Molly starts, in a panic, but it seems as if whatever is happening is already in motion, the lot of them swept along for the ride.  Molly groans.  Then she yelps as her dad pokes her in the shoulder, urging her up.</p><p>A moment later they’re halfway across the patio.  The men fall quiet, watching as Mr. Tanner leads Molly right up to them, his hands on her shoulders.  “<em>Hallo!  Guten tag!</em>” he says cheerfully, and then something in halting German that Nile doesn’t understand.  He squeezes Molly’s shoulders.  Molly looks torn somewhere between mortification and fascination, but when one of the old men leans forward and responds, she glances at her dad and then begins to speak, also in German. </p><p>Nile frowns, watching the conversation as it unfolds, unable to understand exactly what’s being said.  Until, at least, one of the old men smiles at her and gestures for her to pull up a chair.</p><p>“I hear that you want to hear about the… ghost of the sea,” he says, in English as halting as Mr. Tanner’s German.</p><p>“Only if it isn’t an inconvenience,” Nile says, glancing at Molly and Mr. Tanner.  Mr. Tanner nods eagerly.  Molly, looking slightly more reserved, huffs a little… but she, too, pulls up a chair.</p><p>“No, no inconvenience,” the man says.  He then begins to weave a slow and winding tale, his companion pitching in comments in German that he then translates, about a man who never dies and a ship that always sails.  A man who is ever so polite, who always asks after the families of the men on the docks as if he’s known them since before they were born… a man who doesn’t fish, but who helps the fisherman haul their catches onto the docks when the weather starts getting harsh and the waves start getting choppy… a man who saved the old man’s great grandfather from drowning, once, back when he was a boy no older than twelve.  Though he never sits for photographs, he will sometimes draw for the children—these beautiful drawings of fish and octopi and the ships on the sea, beautiful art which he hands away like it’s nothing.</p><p>This man, this sailor, this ghost, the old man says, is well known around the coast for being kind—not so strange a thing, except that the stories of this kindness go back generations upon generations, the same man coming back again, and again, and again.  They worry about him, when the storms get bad.  But he always makes it through.  Somehow, he always appears once more, to chat and draw and help, before he disappears back out to the sea.</p><p>The old man sighs then, his eyes distant and wistful.  “He might be a part of the sea,” he says, contemplative.  “A part of the water itself.  Or maybe he’s in love with it.  I couldn’t say.  There are many sailors who love the sea, but there are few whose eyes hold the longing that his do every time he’s on land.  And he never stays long, sometimes hardly more than an hour or two, before he leaves again.  Always heading for the horizon and never, ever looking back.”</p><p>Nile nods in awe, so invested in the story that she doesn’t realize at first that a man is standing in front of the building across the way.  He catches her eye a moment later, however, as he raises his hand to an earpiece in his ear, all fake casualness. </p><p>Trying not to draw attention to herself, Nile excuses herself carefully to the bathroom.  She’s shaking a little as she heads inside.  She thinks of Molly, of the younger Tanner kid, of Mr. and Mrs. Tanner’s kindness, and she knows she’s made a mistake.  She’s endangered their lives, put them in the line of fire—and they will not rise again if they are struck. </p><p>Swallowing hard, Nile heads through the restaurant, watching behind her the entire time—there are no eyes on her here, but she doesn’t trust that the man doesn’t have friends somewhere close by.  She swallows, checking swiftly for an escape route.  She just has to get out, to get away from the Tanners—if she can just make it out, draw the attention away from them, everything will be okay.</p><p>Luckily, she finds a way out a moment later.  The back door of the kitchen is propped open to let in some cool air—she slips through, heading around the edge of the building and away, out of sight of the man.  Then, gritting her teeth, she breaks into a run—</p><p>—only to slam into another man, who was clearly waiting for her just around the building.  He grins, grabbing her by the wrist.  “Gotcha,” he says, in a thick German accent.</p><p>Nile twists, utilizing all her military training to wrench away.  It isn’t enough.  Two more men pop out of the woodwork, and in seconds she’s surrounded, not by American military personnel but by some other unsavory characters.  <em>They must have been spying on the lab</em>, she realizes.  They must have found out about her accidentally.  And now that they know, they want her, too.</p><p>Nile bares her teeth, feet spread and fists at the ready.  She managed to slip away from armed men once, she can do it again.  It’ll hurt if they pull out their weapons, but she has a distinct advantage in that department.  She just hopes they don’t have tasers, or gas canisters, because she’s pretty sure a shot of electricity or some knock-out gas could still take her down. </p><p>It’s a chance she’ll have to take.  “Come at me,” she spits.</p><p>And they do.  They come, one after another, and she fights.  She fights like <em>hell</em>.  But there are now six of them and only one of her, and she’s tired from a sleepless night and the stress of the past few days and fuck, fuck, they’re going to win and she won’t be able to do anything as they take her god knows where, to another lab or to a prison or to somewhere even worse—</p><p>—except just when she’s thrown to the ground, a knee in her back, as her arms are wrenched up behind her, someone new arrives.  Like a specter, a ghost, he lands in the middle of the fight and takes out two men before they can even yell.  He spins, movements ingrained with a strange grace, the kind of grace that should not befit a man with a sword, of all things, but somehow does.  He finishes the men in seconds, his chest rising and falling as he glances around, before he wipes his weapon on one of the men’s pants.  He then turns and reaches a hand out to Nile.</p><p>“Come with me,” he says.  “I’ll explain everything.”</p><p>…She stares, eyes locked on the hand before her.  A brown hand, with a silver ring on one finger.  She glances at his other hand—its pair rests there. </p><p>Two brown hands.  Two silver rings.  She looks up into warm brown eyes… and takes the hand extended.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>The Weser River Delta, off the coast of Germany, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The <em>Costante</em> is waiting for the two of them just outside the Bremerhaven town limit, floating contently on the water at a rarely used dock that’s fallen into disrepair.  Joe walks right across the boards and up to the gangplank, scaling it with ease before he looks back and realizes that the newest immortal has paused on the bank, staring at the rotting wood of the dock.</p><p>“It’s safe,” he says, leaning on the <em>Costante</em><em>’s</em> railing.  The boards of the dock creak ominously as if in response.  He hums, reconsidering.  “Well, for you and me, anyway.”</p><p>The young woman frowns, glancing back toward the town.  “I was with a family of tourists.  Will they be okay?”</p><p>“They will.  I’m already looking into it, don’t worry.  Now come on, we’re wasting daylight.”</p><p>She doesn’t believe him, he can see it on her face—but after a moment he also sees her resolve harden, her desire to get away from her pursuers and to understand what’s happening to her winning out against the indecision.  She clenches her jaw and steps onto the dock.</p><p>Joe nods approvingly, joining her at the gangplank to take her hand and help her up.  He then pulls the plank back onto the deck, and goes about preparing the tug for a quick departure.  As he goes about, unmooring the ship and slipping down into the engine room to turn on the engines, the young woman follows, always a few steps behind him, keeping him in view.</p><p>Joe clicks his tongue.  He doesn’t mind the vigilance, but there isn’t much space on the boat—they nearly bottleneck when he comes back up the ladder from the engine room.  He doesn’t need her touching anything she’s not supposed to touch, either, so as he heads into the wheelhouse Joe turns to her and asks, “What’s your name?”</p><p>“…Nile,” the young woman says, after a pause.</p><p>“Great.  Nile.  I’m Joe, and I’m going to need you to sit… right, uh… <em>here</em>, and just.  Observe.  Okay?”</p><p>Nile frowns, a protest visibly building on her tongue.</p><p>Joe fixes her with a glare before it finds its way out.  “Have you manned a boat before?”</p><p>“No…?”</p><p>“Have you sailed a ship?”</p><p>“No—”</p><p>“Have you had any nautical experience at all?”</p><p>“No, but—”</p><p>“Then you get to sit down and watch before you screw something up.”  Joe steps back, waiting to see if she’ll listen to him.  After a long moment spent locked in a staring contest, she does, settling down into the rickety old chair that lives in the wheelhouse. </p><p>Joe nods again.  He can still see the hesitation and the wariness in her eyes, but as long as she does as she’s told he doesn’t particularly care. </p><p>It’s time to get the hell out of here. </p><p>It doesn’t take long to make their way out of the delta and out to open sea.  Nile is quiet as they go, watching Joe with wary eyes all the way up until he decides they’re far enough and kills the engines, leaving them adrift.  He reaches for the satellite phone.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Nile asks immediately, halfway to a stand. </p><p>Joe glances over.  “I’m calling my friends to let them know you’re with me,” he says.</p><p>“Your friends?  What <em>friends</em>?”</p><p>Joe snorts at the sharp edge in her voice.  “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t say that,” he says, and begins reaching again.</p><p>Before he can he finds a knife at his throat.  He blinks down at it—it’s one of his own, the one that lives in the minuscule hallway leading to the engine room.  She must have seen it and snagged it while he was turning on the engines.  Joe sighs, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.  It would be the cherry on top of a not-great day to have to clean blood out of the floorboards.</p><p>“Look,” he says.  “You’ve decided to trust me as far as getting on my boat.  If you want answers, then you’re going to have to trust me a little farther.”</p><p>The knife wavers, the edge grazing the skin of Joe’s throat below his beard.  “You said you’d explain everything,” she says, the tone of her voice somewhere between an order and a plea. </p><p>Joe purses his lips.  “And I will.  But first I need to call the others and let them know that you’re safe.”</p><p>Nile bares her teeth like an animal, wild with fear.  “Am I?  Am I safe?” she asks.</p><p>Joe reaches up, slowly, and grips the blade of the knife.  “You are,” he says, soft and careful.  He begins to guide the knife down.  “I haven’t hurt you, and I don’t plan to.”</p><p>Nile swallows, her lip trembling just slightly.  Then she backs away, taking the knife with her.  He lets her.  “Put them on speaker,” she says, gesturing to the phone.  “I want to hear.”</p><p>Joe nods, feeling suddenly exhausted.  Still, he does as she says, setting up the satellite phone and sending out a ping to the secure line on Booker’s end.</p><p>It takes a moment before Booker answers.</p><p>“<em>Oui</em>?” he says. </p><p>“I have her,” Joe says, without preamble.  “You gonna come meet us?”</p><p>Booker pauses.  “<em>Wait, you have her?  Already?</em>”</p><p>“I was in the neighborhood, what can I say.  Nile, say hi.”</p><p>Nile twitches as Joe raises the phone toward her, before saying a careful, “Hello.”</p><p>“<em>I</em><em>’ll be damned</em>,” Booker says.  “<em>Where</em><em>’s your heading, Cuxhaven?</em>”</p><p>Joe hums.  “Would be best.  ETA?”</p><p>“<em>Got caught up in a thing.  We</em><em>’ll be there by morning, hopefully.</em>”</p><p>“I guess we’ll meet you then,” Joe says.  “And Book?  Keep an eye out for German merceneries, we ran into a few in Bremerhaven.  There’s a family that might be in danger—I’ll send along the info.”</p><p>“<em>Roger that</em>,” Booker says.  Then he cuts the link, the line going dead. </p><p>Joe clicks his tongue, folding up the phone to put it back on its hook.  Twenty-four hours, less even, and he’ll be back at his mission.  Just… twenty-four hours.  He can make it that long.</p><p><em>In the meantime</em>, he thinks, as Nile’s stomach growls suddenly in the silence, <em>it</em><em>’s time for some lunch</em>.</p><p>***</p><p>Nile is quiet as Joe prepares a pair of plates.  She’s clearly still uneasy, refusing to take a bite until Joe starts eating, knife still gripped in her free hand.  She doesn’t trust him, that much is obvious—fair, but also not his problem.  At least not for long.  She’ll be off with the others soon enough.</p><p>Right now, however, she’s staring a hole through Joe’s skull.  He sighs, lowering his fork.  He did promise an explanation, after all.  “Right,” he says.  “So.  We’re immortal.”</p><p>Nile blinks, unamused.  “…Yeah, I gathered that.  Why?  How?  Are we still human?  Can we heal from anything?  How many of us are there?  Are you, like… good guys?”</p><p>Why?  God, if that’s not the last can of worms that Joe needs to be opening right now.  Nicolo used to call their affliction ‘destiny’, but look at them now.  Separated by five hundred years and a wall of water… some destiny that is.  Whatever fate granted them eternity only to put Nicolo on the bottom of the ocean has a sick sense of humor. </p><p>Joe pushes past the pang in his gut, past the bitter tang on his tongue.  “Don’t know why, don’t know how, but we still bleed so I assume we’re still human.  There are only a handful of us, and as for ‘good’, well… I guess that one depends on the century,” he says.  He pauses, thinking.  “Did I answer all your questions?  I feel like I missed one.”</p><p>Nile, still a few words behind, stares at him.  “Century?” she asks.  “How old <em>are</em> you?”</p><p>“Me?  I first died in the crusades.”</p><p>Joe could have laughed at the way Nile’s jaw drops nearly to the floor.  “The <em>crusades</em>?”</p><p>“Yep.  Booker’s young, he’s about two hundred now.  Died fighting with Napoleon.  Then there’s Andy and Quynh—neither of them are quite sure how old they are, but Quynh is somewhere in the three thousand range.  Andy, well… let’s just say that there are entire civilizations that aren’t as old as Andy.”</p><p><em>Don</em><em>’t forget Nicolo</em>, says a little voice somewhere in the back of his mind.  Joe shakes his head, as if to shake the thought away.  As if Joe would ever, <em>could</em> ever, forget about Nicolo.</p><p>For a moment the little kitchen is quiet, both Joe and Nile lost in their respective thoughts.  Then Joe snorts, propping his chin up on his hand.  “Andy has a… different view of the world than anyone I’ve ever met.  Be glad that she wasn’t the one who came to fetch you.”</p><p>“…Sounds like there’s a story behind that.”</p><p>“There is,” Joe says.  He does not elaborate, instead offering more canned beans.</p><p>“So… we really never die,” Nile says, voice awed. </p><p>“Well…” </p><p>Nile frowns.  “What, can we die or can’t we?”</p><p>Joe shifts, suddenly feeling not-hungry for the last of his food.  “Most times we can’t,” he says.  “Or we do, but we come right back.  It can happen a thousand times, a million… there’s no set number, as far as I can tell.  But it isn’t forever.  One day our wounds just… stop healing up.  We become mortal.  It happened to one of us a long, long time ago.”</p><p>Nile’s eyes are like scalpels, digging into him.  “Why?” she asks.</p><p>And Joe takes a deep breath, and pushes it out again, and when he’s sure his voice can be steady he says, “I have a theory.”  He glances over at Nile, at her steady gaze as she waits for him to continue.  He does, a fine tremor working through him as he goes.  “I think… at a certain point, we just… we give up.  Our will to fight, to survive, is gone.  There are times when we’re low, and we think that’s it—we think we can sink no lower.  There will come a point when you think you can’t possibly go on.  But there’s still a small spark somewhere inside of you, inside of each of us, burning.  And as long as that spark exists, we cannot die.”</p><p>Joe turns to the wall, his eyes going distant.  “But you have to understand… all things must come to an end.  There is a point of acceptance, a point where we accept that we cannot change the world and we no longer care to try.  And I think… that moment, when we finally reach some sort of peace with the fact that we are only human… that’s it.  That’s the end.”</p><p>For a moment all is quiet.  The boat gently rocks, side to side to side again, and Joe stares into nothingness, his thoughts a million miles away.  Then, sudden and abrupt, he stands.</p><p>“You must be tired,” he says, taking Nile’s plate.  “I’ll show you my bunk.  You can rest there while I take us to Cuxhaven.”</p><p>Nile looks for a moment like she’s going to argue, but there must be something in Joe’s face that stops her from protesting, from asking any of the millions of other questions that are clearly poised on her tongue.  She allows him to take her to his bunk, accepts the clothes he offers for her to change into, and then Joe is gone, climbing up to the wheelhouse before he can fall apart.  He gathers himself there, slowly picking up pieces as they fall, one by one, to the ground. </p><p>It doesn’t seem to make a difference.  It never does.  Every time he fits one piece back where it should be another clatters down.  He breathes, deep and slow, and it ignites a flare of pain, deep, deep in his chest. </p><p>Because Nicolo can’t breathe.  He can’t breathe, he just drowns and drowns and drowns, and each time he dies it’s another death closer to the moment that he loses his will to survive.  If he loses his spark, if the frozen depths of the ocean snuff it out before Joe can find him…</p><p>Joe shudders, his back hunching.  He just… he’s glad the others are coming.  That they’ll take Nile and her endless questions away again.  Joe has been alone so long… he feels like he doesn’t know how to be human anymore.  All he knows is that he can’t—he <em>won</em><em>’t</em>—leave Nicolo down there for a moment longer than he has to.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I swear I've changed the chapter count for the last time OTL.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Off the coast of Germany, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nile doesn’t sleep, though she knows she probably should.  There’s too much going on, too many thoughts all crammed into her head for her to even attempt.  It is what it is.  She has a feeling that even if she managed to drift off it wouldn’t be for long, nightmares lurking at the edges of her consciousness.  She won’t be able to resist sleeping forever, she knows, but she can put it off for now, at least. </p><p>Lips pursed and wearing a t-shirt at least two sizes too large, she sets to pacing, exploring the minuscule room as she goes.  She’d feel bad about being nosy, but she still doesn’t fully trust Joe.  She’s learned her lesson about trusting the wrong people.  Which means it’s time to poke around.  What will the space tell her about the man she’s boarding with?  Captain Joe… one man crew of the <em>Costante</em>… hm. </p><p>The first thing she notices—has noticed since Joe led her into the room, really—are the walls.  Or, rather, what’s <em>on</em> the walls.  They’re papered in several layers of notes and maps and drawings, taped all on top of each other.  Several years worth at least, if she had to guess.  She tries to read a couple but the words that aren’t covered by other, more recent bits and pieces are all in either Arabic or another language that she can’t quite place, something that looks like it might be related to Italian.  The drawings, at least, are easy to understand—the seascapes and ships and faces are all very recognizable.  Well, all of them except one. </p><p>Nile leans in close.  The drawing is in black and white, faded ink turning from black to brown.  The paper is so old it’s yellowed, so fragile-looking that she doesn’t dare touch, but it hasn’t been covered up.  It looks like… a frowning face, almost.  A gargoyle, one with a wide open mouth, screaming endlessly.  Nile shivers, a chill seeping down her spine—it seems familiar, somehow.  Like she’s seen it in her dreams.</p><p>She doesn’t want to think about that.  She didn’t get a chance to ask Joe about why she dreamed about him, why she has the same dreams about a handful of other faces, but she isn’t sure she wants to know just yet.  Instead she pulls away to go poke her head into the drawers that serve as a dresser, feeling the motion of the sea beneath her feet.  Shirts, pants, socks… everything she finds is in the same two shades of gray and green, sturdy but still comfortable.  She hums and closes the drawer again.</p><p>There aren’t many other things in the room.  A box with some art supplies in it, a box with some books in it, a coat on a hook, another knife… she trails her fingers over the blanket on the bed before she sits down on it, biting her lip.  She waits a moment, waiting to see what comes next.  When nothing does she gets up again, restless, and starts pawing through the box of books, searching for titles in English.</p><p>She finds a handful, pulling them out to flip through them.  They mostly seem to be user manuals for electronics—probably for the array of sonar machines she saw upstairs—but there are also a few books on marine life and one well-read romance novel, one that is marked up with more notes in that not-Italian script.  There is a drawing of a moon and sun inside the front cover, and a bunch of little doodles of steamy faces scattered through the pages.</p><p>It’s oddly… personal.  Nile glances around, feeling for a moment like she did when she was a little kid and got into her mom’s grown-up magazines.  She wonders if Joe knows what she’s doing, if he accepted the risk of her snooping when he left her alone—or if, on the other hand, he’ll walk in, see her with the book, and fly into a rage.  He wasn’t lying, he hasn’t hurt her—but she saw the look on his face as he spoke about losing their immortality, saw the murk beneath the surface.  Joe isn’t quite the simple sailor that he seems.  He can’t be. </p><p>Nile bites the inside of her cheek.  Joe may have a dark side, but then again, what can he really do to her?  Torture her?  Been there, done that.  Not fun, but she made it out all right.  She isn’t afraid of one man.</p><p>Probably.</p><p>…Oh, to hell with it.  Nile sinks down onto the floor, folding her legs in front of her and opening the book to page one.  It takes a moment, but soon enough she’s in the groove of reading.  The story is… well.  It’s interesting, to say the least.  One part bodice-ripper and two parts gothic horror, she finds herself laughing in places she’s definitely not supposed to laugh, greatly amused by the general corniness of the writing.  It’s definitely not high literature, that’s for sure.  Still, there’s something about it that’s calming, enough so that by the time she’s halfway through the book several hours have passed, the motion of the sea having soothed a bit of the restless energy burning inside of her.</p><p>She sets the book down, turning to look at the door.  Joe hasn’t come back at all in the last few hours, but the ship is still moving so he must be around.  Maybe he’s cooled off enough from his earlier mood swing that she can ask about the phone.  She hasn’t dared to call her mom just in case the military was listening in, but maybe his line is secure enough that she can do it.  You know.  Just to tell her mom that she’s okay.</p><p>That decided, Nile stretches and gets up, twisting her spine.  She waits for her back to pop but it doesn’t.  She frowns a little.  Maybe immortality and superhuman healing make her immune to stiff joints.  That would be something.</p><p>The sun has sunk just below the horizon, the sky a cornflower blue that is slowly sinking down to velvety blackness, when she gets upstairs to the place Joe referred to as the wheelhouse.  The chair she’d been sitting on is still there, though now covered in rolled up charts.  She spies Joe in an instant, in the center of the mess, one hand on the wheel and the other on an ancient computer keyboard, scrolling across a sonar image with a zen sort of focus.  He doesn’t so much as twitch as she enters, sticking her nose in—not until she clears her throat, anyway.  Then he jumps, jerking around to face her. </p><p>“Fuck,” he says, his shoulders untensing.  “I forgot you were here.”</p><p>“Great hospitality,” Nile says.  She bites her lip, wondering if it’s too early to go joking around, but after a momentary pause Joe lets out a bark of laughter.</p><p>“Forgive me, it’s been a while since I’ve had guests,” he says, shaking his head.  “Here, uh… let me just…”</p><p>He leans back, clearing off the chair once more and gesturing for her to take it.  She does, leaning over to peer out the windows at the darkening water.  “Wait, where are we?” she asks.  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I feel like we should have hit Cuxhaven by now.”</p><p>“Right.  Yeah.  We don’t need to be there until morning so I was taking the long way around,” Joe says, and shrugs.  “I’ve been mapping the sea floor for a while now and I haven’t hit this part of the North Sea since the seventies.”</p><p>Weird, but the dude was born before the printing press was invented so Nile lets it slide, giving him a nod.  Then she purses her lips and says, “I was reading one of your books.  I hope that’s okay.”</p><p>“What?” Joe asks, already focused back on the sonar.  He blinks, turning back around.  “Oh, god.  You don’t mean that god-awful erotica novel, do you?”</p><p>Nile snorts.  “That’s the one.”</p><p>Joe laughs again, another short bark.  “Lord have mercy.  I don’t know how you can stand it.  That thing belongs in a wood chipper.”</p><p>“You seemed to enjoy it.  Just judging by the drawings, anyway.” </p><p>Nile is going for another joke, hoping to maybe get another of those short laughs, but this time Joe turns contemplative, looking out toward the sea.  “It’s something to pass the time, at least,” he says, noncommittal. </p><p>Nile waits to see if he’ll say anything else, but he doesn’t.  Her brows draw together as she takes him in—so sure behind the wheel, but so strangely distant.  She wonders if he was always like this.</p><p>It’s a question for another time.  Right now she’s on a mission.  “Joe?” she calls, making sure she has his attention.  “Is it possible to use your phone?”</p><p>Joe looks at her, something unfathomable in his eyes.  “You have family, huh?” he says.  Nile nods.  He sighs.  “I’d let you if I could, but I have orders from Andy not to call any lines that aren’t pre-established.”</p><p>Nile frowns.  “Why?”</p><p>He smiles, a crooked little thing.  “There are a lot of people who would do a lot of things for a gift like ours.  It’s best to stay under the radar.”  He scratches at his beard, thinking.  “If you really want, you can ask Andy to make an exception.  She might say yes.”</p><p>With a sigh, Nile slumps a little in her seat.  “Fine,” she says.  Then she props up her chin on her hand, watching as Joe falls back into his rhythm.  She doesn’t disrupt him again—just watches as he continues his endless scrolling across the images on the screen, guiding the boat around in patterns that only he understands.  She watches… and watches… and after a while the exhaustion finally starts to catch up to her, her head nodding and her eyes closing before she forces them back open. </p><p>She’s halfway asleep when she feels the ship slow to a stop.  “Okay,” Joe says.  “Bedtime.  I mean it this time.”</p><p>Nile yawns.  “Are you going to sleep, too?”</p><p>“Nah.  I’ll be around soon, but I want to make sure we get to a safe dock first.  Here, you take the bed—I’ll take the floor.”</p><p>Nile nods, following him again to the tiny bedroom.  She watches as he sets up some blankets on the floor for himself, slow blinking until he’s finished.  “Light on or off?” he asks, standing in the doorway.</p><p>“Off,” Nile says, and folds back the blankets on the bunk to crawl into bed.  Joe nods, and hits the switch, leaving her alone in the darkness with the sway of the boat to rock her to sleep.</p><p>It feels like no time at all before the dreams come.  The Asian woman with the long black hair… the Frenchman with the flask… the white woman with the axe… and then…</p><p>…like slipping down under the surface of the ocean…</p><p>…she finds herself dreaming of another man.  He is floating, so cold, so numb—holding his breath against the crushing weight of water as if it is second nature, instinctual, an action so deeply ingrained in him that he does not think about it, just does.  He does not think about the water, or the iron, or the cold… he just <em>is</em>.  Existing.  An empty shell of someone who once was.  Eyes open but forever unseeing, unmoving, uncaring.  There is a burning growing, a desperate need somewhere inside, but still he… she… they do not move, motionless and utterly numb, floating in the space between one death and the next.</p><p>Until the burn becomes too much.</p><p>Until the need for air overrides everything else.</p><p>Until their lips part, and they breathe in—</p><p>—only there is no air, just water, water, water—</p><p>—the frigid rush of the salt pouring down their throat—</p><p>—thick, briny—</p><p>—and a moment of relief before—</p><p>—pain, like knives lancing through their lungs—</p><p>—drowning, drowning—</p><p>—oh god, let it stop—</p><p>—please let it stop—</p><p>—not again—</p><p>—<em>please</em>—</p><p>—and Nile gasps awake, clawing at her throat and taking great, gulping gasps of air, knowing that if Joe exists, if the Asian woman and the Frenchman and the white woman also exist, if they’re real, if the dreams are <em>real</em>…</p><p>…then somewhere cold, and dark, and silent… where no human should ever be, trapped at the bottom of the sea… a man has just drowned. </p><p>As he does.</p><p>Over… and over… and <em>over</em> again.</p><p>Nile can’t help it—she cries out, a desperate whine that wrenches from her throat as quick footsteps approach the bedroom.  “What is it, what’s going on?” Joe asks, slamming through the door and slapping on the light, body tense and eyes on high alert. </p><p>Nile swallows, her breath still coming too fast and cold sweat on her skin, the memory of drowning too close on her heels.  “…A dream,” she manages to say.  “I—a bad dream.”</p><p>She glances up just in time to see Joe shrink back, his fingers tightening on the handle of the door.  He seems to fight himself for a moment, eyes closed and lips twitching, before he steps all the way into the room and leans back against the wall, faking nonchalance.  “Tell me,” he says, and his voice is guarded, like sandbags braced against the storm surge of a hurricane.  It isn’t particularly comforting, isn’t particularly welcoming—but Nile thinks about her certainty that the man in the water, in the coffin, is real, and she has to know.  She <em>has to</em>. </p><p>She opens her mouth, and draws in air, and there, in the dark of the night in an unfamiliar place with a strange man and an even stranger dream, she <em>speaks</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>...I changed the chapter count again.  But that was the last time!!  Because it's done, guys!!  All the chapters are complete, and we're going to switch to posting twice a week so that you guys can enjoy the story slightly faster, haha.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A dock outside of Cuxhaven, Germany, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s nearing midnight, and Joe has just cut the engines for the night when he hears Nile wake, hard and fast, in his bunk. </p><p>He’s running before he knows he’s running, suddenly terrified that they’re somehow under attack.  He doesn’t know how they could be—the ship is too small for anyone to sneak aboard unnoticed—but Nile is his responsibility.  She’s <em>under his protection</em>.  If anything happens to her on board the <em>Costante—fuck</em>—</p><p>Thankfully, there is no one else there when he arrives in the room, stopping short in the doorway.  It’s just Nile, sitting upright in bed with a look of abject horror on her face.  Joe pauses a moment to take her in, from the too-wide eyes to the hands fisted in the blankets.  That look, that horror… it’s an expression he knows well.  Andy and Quynh wore it, when he told them about the iron maiden—and Booker, too, when he first had the dream and woke breathless and screaming.  Even before she opens her mouth with the words ‘a bad dream’ heavy on her tongue he knows what—<em>who</em>—she dreamt of.</p><p>He only hesitates a moment before he asks her to tell him about it.  It’s what Nicolo would have done—he would have sat up and listened to her talk about her bad dream, no matter how late the hour.  Joe may have lost Nicolo, may have lost sight of the path forward, may be adrift on an endless <em>goddamn</em> sea with no beacon to guide him and no shore in sight… but still he knows that Nicolo would want him to listen.</p><p>All the same, he almost regrets encouraging her when, a moment later, she opens her mouth and begins.</p><p>“It’s been coming clearer and clearer, ever since I died.  Every time I sleep, I dream about…”</p><p>Joe stays silent, swallowing hard.  Waiting as Nile gets up the courage to continue.</p><p>“I dream about a man locked in an iron coffin.  Under the sea.”</p><p>Joe can’t help it—a wounded noise crawls up his throat, coming out before he can swallow it back.  He feels frozen, trapped—like he’s caught in a spider’s web, watching as the beast crawls along the silk toward him, his demise inevitable.  He’s unable to move, to stop her, before she tells him what he already knows.</p><p>…He’s not sure he even wants to stop her at all.</p><p>“He keeps drowning… and then coming back to life… and he’s still, so still, and so cold… he’s chilled down to his bones and the water poured, icy and burning, down his throat.  I felt him.  And he was so… empty.  I could feel his numbness.”  Nile blinks, her eyes focusing on Joe as she says, “He felt like he was losing his grip on everything real.”</p><p>God, deep breaths, deep breaths.  Joe swallows back the pain rising up the back of his throat.  “His name…” he starts, only for his voice to break like ice cracking beneath his shoes.  He closes his eyes.  He tries again.  “His name… is Nicolo.”</p><p>“He’s real?” Nile asks, understanding and horror warring on her face. </p><p>Joe nods, slowly building the strength he needs to tell the story.  It takes a long moment before he opens his mouth to say, “I told you that I’m from the crusades.  I didn’t tell you that I’m not the only one.”  He takes a deep breath.  “We came into this world, this life, together.  On opposite sides, mortal enemies turned immortal.  If Andy is a wild boar, refusing to go down, gutting everyone in her path… and Quynh is a pit viper, whose strike is quicker than the eye can follow and deadlier than any venom known to man… then Nicolo is an eagle, flying straight and true and descending on the enemy from above with beak and talons sharp as a blade.  And then there was me, sword raised—I cut him down, I tore him from the skies over and over as he did the same to me, two falling angels locked in eternal battle.  We killed each other.”</p><p>He doesn’t mean for his voice to break there, but it does.  He can imagine Nicolo’s responding smile, has seen it enough times that it is seared in his mind.  <em>The love of my life</em>, Nicolo would say, any time it came up, <em>was of the people I was told to hate</em>.  <em>But I do not hate him</em>.  <em>I love this man with all my heart, my soul, and more</em>.</p><p>“So… I don’t understand.  He was your enemy?” Nile asks, frowning.  Her eyes are huge, staring at him under the light of the bulb overhead.</p><p>Joe takes another deep breath.  He’s not sure how many more he has, how long he can go before the pain grows too heavy on his chest to breathe.  “He was.  At first.  Until one day I threw down my sword in a fit of rage at the fact that no matter how many times I cut him down he would always rise again.  And Nicolo… he laughed.  And he told me, in the most broken Arabic I’ve ever heard, that he had some wine from the crusader’s encampment and if it suited me better we could try to kill each other with that, instead.  That was the beginning… of everything.”</p><p>“Romantic,” Nile says, sounding unconvinced.</p><p>Joe laughs, the pain easing back just for a moment.  She’s so young, so innocent—she cannot fathom a hundred years, let alone a thousand.  “It was,” Joe says.  Then he sighs, a wistful sound.  “Over four hundred years, we had.  He was the moon when I was lost in darkness and the warmth when I shivered in cold.  His kiss still thrilled me after half a millennia.  He said it was destiny, our love.  That we were fated to be together forever.   And then…”  The pain returns, growing like frost up the ridges of his heart.  Joe’s gaze falls away from Nile, turning to the drawing of the iron maiden that haunts his every waking moment and most of his dreaming ones, too.  “Then he was taken away from me and lost to the sea.  Lost to the cruelty of human beings whose animalistic fear overcame their humanity.”</p><p>Nile clutches at the blankets, drawing them up toward her chest like a child.  “…How?” she asks at long last, voice low but steady.</p><p>Joe stares at the drawing, the memories overlapping the wall in front of him.  “We were trying to help people.  That was all.  So called heretics who were hung for witchcraft.  We tried so hard to help… until we were accused of witchcraft, ourselves.  We were hung, and when hanging didn’t work…”</p><p>He can’t say it.  He remembers the iron maiden, remembers Nicolo, so calm and steady, stepping up into its yawning maw.  He remembers the last look they shared, the last words, and he just—he <em>can</em><em>’t</em>.</p><p>“I screamed for him for three days straight,” he says instead, and he knows he should stop, that he’s scaring her, but he can’t quite manage.  “I broke and rebroke my wrists so many times trying to get out of the shackles that I thought they’d be forever disfigured.  But they healed again, and again, the same every time, until I was too exhausted to keep fighting and I collapsed.  The people who did that to him, to us… they took advantage of that.  My weakness.”</p><p>“You didn’t wind up in the sea, too, did you?” Nile asks, stricken.</p><p>Joe shakes his head, trying to draw himself out of the memories.  It does not work.  “Burned alive,” he says, as the fire scorches through his flesh and down to his bones.  “They thought, without my Nicolo, that I would be weaker and more susceptible to the cleansing flames and I would finally die for good.  But I did not.  Like Nicolo does not die in the water I did not, could not, die in the flames.  I rose again, burns healing and flesh regrowing on my bones, from the ashes.  I wreaked havoc.  I tore them all apart in my search for him.”</p><p>“And you never… you never found him?” Nile asks.  She’s shivering, just slightly, a tremor working through her hands.</p><p>Joe shakes his head.  “Andy and Quynh found me and we searched together.  For decades, we searched.  And then, first Quynh and then Andy… they fell away.  Until it was only me left.  They had other wars to fight, other people to save.  They wanted me to come with them, to help, but… how could I?  How could I abandon him when I knew he was down there, all alone—?”  Joe shakes his head, pressing his fingers to his mouth.</p><p>“That’s… awful,” Nile says, hushed. </p><p>It’s an understatement.  They both know it.  Still, what else is there to say?  Joe shakes his head, curling his fingers into a fist until the rings on his knuckles kiss his lips, trying to hold in the pain that is threatening to overwhelm him.  He didn’t mean to tell her so much.  He didn’t mean to rip open the wound once more. </p><p>It’s just that he’s so… goddamn… <em>tired</em>. </p><p>Physically, after a long day, but also just… tired of being alone with nothing but the knowledge that Nicolo is in torment, has been in torment for five hundred years.  Five hundred years… a hundred and eighty thousand days… two hundred and sixty two <em>million</em> minutes… and every two minutes, a death… god.  There have been a hundred and thirty one million times that Nicolo’s heart has stopped in his chest, still and lifeless, and a hundred and thirty one million times that it flared back to life once more.  How many resurrections does he have left?  How many times can it begin again?  How many times before—?</p><p>Joe shudders, his shoulders beginning to shake.  He knows Booker would tell him if he stopped seeing Nicolo in his dreams.  He <em>knows</em> this.  But he was still so afraid.  Afraid that Booker had already stopped dreaming about him, afraid that Booker was too kind to tell him.  Too kind to sever Joe’s last tie to sanity, to lock him in his own coffin and throw him into a different ocean, one of grief and pain unimaginable.</p><p>But Nicky is alive.  He’s still down there, waiting to be found and Joe… Joe <em>will</em> find him.</p><p>There is no alternative.</p><p>The resolve hardening in his chest, Joe swallows, hard, scrubbing a hand over his eyes.  As if she understands, Nile wordlessly moves, settling with her back to the wall and her knees drawn up to her chest.  In silence, Joe joins her on the bunk, knowing that Nile will not go back to sleep now and neither will he.  If Nicolo were here, he’d know just what to say to ease their minds, to help them sleep… but he isn’t.  He isn’t here.  It’s only Joe, and he can hardly <em>breathe</em> let alone find the right words to speak. </p><p>At least he can be here.  He can be a presence in the night.  Just until tomorrow.  Until the others come.  Tonight, he and Nile can stay awake in the silence…</p><p>…the two of them side by side…</p><p>…alone together…</p><p>…waiting for the light of dawn to crest the horizon.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A27, Germany, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s early morning now, and the sun is impossibly bright as it slants through the car windows.  Booker resists the urge to groan as Quynh smears salmon spread on a bagel, the smell of fish infesting the car.  He spares a moment to sip from his flask before he sets to distracting himself.  There is a message waiting when he boots up his laptop in the backseat, simple but concise.  <em>I need samples.  Soon</em>, it says.</p><p>Booker stares at the words from behind his sunglasses.  The timestamp is from four hours ago—Copley clearly hasn’t been sleeping much.  Not that Booker has, either.  It is what it is.  There’s no sleep for the wicked, after all.</p><p>Booker snorts, shaking his head.  Unfortunately, the noise gets Quynh’s attention—she leans back from the front passenger seat, bagel in hand, and asks, “Watcha doing back there?”</p><p>“Just looking at more boring algae reports for the packet,” Booker says, seamlessly closing the laptop before she can lean far enough to stick her nose in. </p><p>Quynh laughs.  “Careful, or he’s going to strangle you when we meet up with him.”</p><p>Booker waves her off, focusing on the countryside passing by the windows.  His thoughts, however, stay with Copley and his deal, his promise, somewhere on the other side of the North Sea. </p><p><em>Someday</em>, he thinks.  <em>Someday not today</em>.</p><p>They get to Cuxhaven soon enough, Andy shooting off the road and swinging toward the private dock they use as a safe house when they come out this way with wild abandon.  She stops short at the dock house, pulling up the brake with military precision as Quynh all but leans out the window, peering down through the trees at the dock.  “I see him!” she says after a moment, pulling her head back into the window just long enough to throw her door open.  “Come on, come on—”</p><p>Booker throws the strap of his bag over his head, following her with a little more care.  Andy just watches, a fond smile on her face, as Qunyh races through the trees and throws herself at Joe, who has just come around the back of the house, a dark-skinned woman following behind him.  The two of them, Qunyh and Joe, collide spectacularly, arms folding around each other—even from this distance Booker can hear Qunyh’s excited chatter as Joe lifts her and swings her around, dangerously close to the shoreline.</p><p>Andy sighs, a soft huff of air.  “Come on,” she says fondly, getting out of the car.  “Before they fall into the sea.”</p><p>Booker snorts, checking to make sure his flask is handy and his gun is in his waistband.  Then he nods Andy forward, following along behind as she makes her way down the small path.  Joe spots them a moment later, peeling Qunyh off so that he can snatch Andy up in a bear hug, as well.  He lifts her off the ground and spins, eliciting a delighted laugh. </p><p>Booker steps out of their way, zoning out of their conversation a bit.  “You look good!” Joe says, somewhere in the background, as Booker takes in the new immortal.  She’s standing to one side, keeping all of them clearly within sight, a slight purse to her lips.  One of Joe’s shirts hangs off her shoulders, a too-big not-quite-green number with a pair of mud gray overalls overtop.  She’s just as young as she seemed in the dreams—late twenties, oldest. </p><p>Booker tunes back in as Qunyh smacks him in the side, just as Andy says, “You look okay,” to Joe, a small, worried smile on her lips.</p><p>Joe laughs, a short bark, clearly choosing to brush that off.  “Thank you, thank you,” he says, smiling at her.  Then he turns to Booker, face turning solemn.</p><p>Booker frowns.  “What?” he asks.  For a moment his mind flashes to Copley and the deal, but that can’t be it—how would Joe know about that?</p><p>Unless the new one saw it.  In her dreams.  If she told Joe, if everything is off before it even starts—</p><p>Joe shakes his head, his hands coming up to clasp Booker’s shoulders like a pair of vices, holding him in place.  “Don’t think you’re getting out of this,” he intones, his eyes boring into Booker’s.  Booker tries not to cringe behind his shades, but he feels caught, trapped—there’s no way out of here if Joe knows.  There’s no coming back from this.  He watches with dread as Joe stares into his soul—and then Joe laughs, the seriousness receding.  “Christ, the look on your face,” he says.  “I’m talking about the dinner you owe me.  Or lunch, now, I suppose.  Pay up, asshole.”</p><p>Oh.  Right.  The bet.  On the game.  Booker huffs, tipping his head back to disguise the wave of pure relief flooding through his system.  “You are much too invested in this,” he says, and then grunts as he’s pulled into a hug, too, the weight of Joe’s strong arms like a searing iron band around his chest. </p><p>Joe pulls back a moment later, turning back to the newbie and gesturing at each of them in turn.  “Andy, Qunyh, Booker—meet Nile,” he says.  “Nile—this is Andy, Qunyh, and Booker.”</p><p>“Yes!  The new one,” Quynh says, and then begins to dig around in her pockets.  “I think this… belongs to you?”</p><p>Nile warily eyes the fist that Quynh pushes toward her.  She reaches out after a moment’s hesitation, her palm flat to take the object from Quynh.  The moment the necklace drops into her palm with a glint of gold, the guarded expression on her face falls away, replaced by a look of teary-eyed wonder.  “You found my cross?” she asks, cradling it to her chest.</p><p>Quynh grins, winking.  “I snagged it before we burnt the lab facility down.  Seemed rather important.”</p><p>“Oh my god, <em>thank you</em>,” Nile says, sniffling a little.  She swallows, and closes her eyes for a moment before she brings them up to meet Quynh’s and then Andy’s.  Booker steps back, trying to fade inconspicuously into the background, but her gaze falls on him next, youthful eyes bright with gratitude.  “It’s been… a weird few days,” she says, swiping a finger across her cheek to catch the tear that escapes.</p><p>“But you got free,” Andy says, intense and appraising, as if she can see Nile’s spirit and is weighing it in hand.  “And we’ll keep you safe now.”</p><p>“Not that we need to,” Quynh says, breaking Andy’s serious look with an elbow to her side.  “We saw the footage of your ruse to escape the facility—very ingenious.”</p><p>“Oh—thanks.”  Nile blinks, half-turning toward Joe.  “Wait, so—are you joining us on the boat?  I’m not sure if you realize this, but there isn’t a whole lot of room—”</p><p>Andy shakes her head with an amused smile as Quynh laughs.  “No, no—you’ll come with the three of us,” Quynh says, once she has herself under control again.</p><p>Nile frowns.  “But Joe… Joe isn’t coming with us,” she says, not quite a question. </p><p>Booker shakes his head.  “Nah, Joe does his own thing,” he says.</p><p>At those words, there’s a spark of understanding in her eyes.  “So what do you do?” she asks, glancing around.</p><p>“Anything we can,” Andy says, with a wry smile.  “With our special talents.”</p><p>Nile looks somewhat unconvinced at this, glancing again at Joe.  Joe only smiles at her, a sad expression.  “They save the world,” he says.  “I save Nicolo.”</p><p>For a moment everything is silent, the weight of the words heavy on the air.  Joe must have told Nile the tale.  Booker still remembers the night he first heard it, in all its chilling glory.  A man trapped at the bottom of the ocean for three hundred years… then four hundred… five hundred… more… all alone, in never-ending torment… slowly losing his grip on reality, on everything that made him human…</p><p>Booker twitches as Quynh breaks the tension, reaching for Nile’s hand and gently uncurling her fingers to take the cross necklace from her once more.  She gestures for Nile to duck her head so that she can fasten the clasp for her.  “You’ll get to say your goodbyes, don’t worry.  We’re having lunch together,” she says, and grins over at Booker.  “Booker is paying.”</p><p>Booker grunts.  “For <em>Joe</em>,” he says, but Quynh has apparently made up her mind, already leading Nile toward the car.  Booker looks at Andy and Joe beseechingly, but they just grin and follow along, Joe giving Booker a hearty smack on the shoulder as he goes, leaving him to bring up the rear. </p><p>Booker sighs.  Assholes, the lot of them.</p><p>***</p><p>Lunch goes well.  As well as it ever does when they’re all together, anyway.  They smile, and joke, and laugh, and ignore the restless energy that rises in Joe the longer he’s on land.  He’s fidgeting something horrible by the time they finish their second round of beers, disguising the tapping of his foot under the table by laughing a little too loud. </p><p>Booker resolutely refuses to look at Andy and Quynh as the meal goes on, knowing what he’ll see—silently grieving the Joe they knew from Before, the pain low and guilty inside them, hearts torn in two by the fact that Joe cannot stay and they cannot go.  Booker doesn’t feel that way, not really—he’s known since the beginning that Joe’s quest isn’t his quest.  But Andy, Quynh… they lost a soldier, when Nicolo sank down to the depths.  They have always struggled with the knowledge that by prioritizing the greater good they condemn a man to endless torment.</p><p>Nile sees it.  Booker can tell by the sharpness of her eyes as she watches them all.  She’s been asking questions—about the dreams they have, and their lives, and what it means to live seemingly forever.  Quynh delights in answering everything she asks, grinning all the while.</p><p>Until she asks about talking to her family, anyway.  Then Quynh shuts her mouth, turning to Andy.</p><p>Andy purses her lips, piercing Nile with a <em>look</em>.  It’s the kind of look that speaks of a tactician’s empathy, of memory so long that more is lost than remembered.  She doesn’t remember her family, Booker knows.  Mortals, to her, are like grains of sand pouring through the slimmest point of an hourglass.  Their lives aren’t meaningless, but they are fleeting—momentary blips across the radar of eons. </p><p>Booker leans back in his chair, silently watching.  He knows how Andy feels about family.  About involving mortals in their lives.  It’s unnecessary, according to her—and worse than that, it’s <em>dangerous</em>.  She didn’t stop him from staying with his sons until the end, but he still remembers the ‘<em>I told you so</em>’ in her eyes when he returned from the last one’s deathbed, his heart pierced by his son’s vitriol, his bitter hatred, a thousand times over.</p><p>He knows she won’t stop Nile now, if this is what Nile wants.  He also knows she won’t make it easy for her. </p><p>He’s right, of course.  But she doesn’t make it easy on him, either, when she says, “Talk to Booker about it later.”  Booker bites the inside of his cheek, knowing exactly why she did it.  He’s a cautionary tale, these days—he’s an example of how completely things can go <em>wrong</em>.</p><p>Booker doesn’t pay much attention after that, discretely drawing out his flask for something heavier than beer.  The end of lunch comes soon enough and yet not soon <em>enough</em>, the tension between them all slowly rising.  Booker pays, because of course he does.  Then Andy rises, gesturing for Nile to come along so they can drop Joe off back at the dock.</p><p>Nile stands, but instead of moving she grips the back of her chair with one hand, the other touching the cross at her throat.  “Actually, I was thinking… what if I stayed on the <em>Costante</em>?  With Joe?”</p><p>Booker blinks, but before he’s really even processed the question Joe is huffing.  “Absolutely not,” he says, his voice betraying his impatience.  “I can’t have distractions.”</p><p>“I won’t be a distraction,” Nile says, her voice growing stronger.  “I can help you.”</p><p>Joe scoffs, but Nile talks over him, determination etched into her gaze.  “I can feel him, Joe.  I can help you search.  You can teach me how to sail the ship and I can do that while you watch the sonar.  And…”  She pauses, but only for a moment.  “And if he dreams of me like I dream of him, then he’ll see your face.”</p><p>Joe jerks as if the words were a blow, his hands curling into fists and his eyes squeezing closed.  Andy’s face goes stony, and Quynh reaches for Joe before forcing her hand back down.  Nile bites her lip, looking young and afraid.  Booker shakes his head, reaching again for his flask. </p><p>For a moment all is silent, the four of them locked in anticipation as they await Joe’s response.  Then Joe swallows, his shoulders falling and his fists loosening. </p><p>“…All right,” he relents.  “We’ll… try that.  <em>But</em>.” </p><p>Nile’s spine straightens into military posture as Joe turns to her, his frown etched into his face.  “But?” she asks.</p><p>Joe shakes his head.  “The moment, the <em>instant</em>, you become a hindrance…” he says.  His words trail off, but the meaning is clear—the moment she impedes his search, she’s <em>out</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A dock outside of Cuxhaven, Germany, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Here,” Qunyh says, hauling a duffel out of the back of the car.  Booker stands back out of her way to avoid being hit as she grins at Nile.  “We got these for you.”</p><p>“…Thank you?” Nile says, as Quynh quickly unzips the bag and pulls out a bright pink camisole.  Quynh holds it up to Nile’s chest, letting out a little squeal of delight.  Nile smiles back, an awkward twitch of her lips.</p><p>Andy, standing off to the side, snorts.  “I told you she wouldn’t like it.”</p><p>“She likes it just fine!” Quynh snaps back, lips curling into a pout.  </p><p>“It’s just a bit… bright,” Nile says quickly, as if hoping to defuse the bomb that is hanging ominously over their heads.</p><p>It doesn’t work.  Booker shakes his head, watching as Andy and Quynh instantaneously devolve into bickering about fashion sense and modern fabric dyes and how to keep a low profile in the digital age.  Soon enough they’ll start sparring about it, and somewhere in the middle of fighting they’ll forget what they were even fighting about.  That’s the two of them for you—perfectly in sync in battle, totally opposed when it comes to anything trivial.  It’s how they keep things interesting after however many thousands of years. </p><p>“Come on,” Booker says to Nile, who looks like she’s just witnessed two college professors start fistfighting over proper comma usage.  He jerks his head to the side to guide her off around the side of the house, leaving the two old ladies to their squabble.  A moment later they’re out of view of the others, including Joe—Booker pauses there, studying Nile for a long moment.  She studies him back, not quite open but not quite guarded, until he clears his throat and says, “The dreams stop when we meet, you know.”</p><p>Nile nods.  “Yeah, yeah, Joe told me.  …Why do you bring it up?”</p><p>Booker looks off past the corner of the house, toward the untamed wilderness on the other side, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair to scrub at his eyes as he does.  What he thinks is, <em>good, she hasn</em><em>’t seen anything she wasn’t supposed to see</em>.  She knows she can’t spy on him for the others, and doesn’t see a reason to want to.  That’s good.  That’s a relief.  It means the plan is still on.  What he says, however, is a simple, “You need to temper your expectations.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” she asks, eyeing him curiously.</p><p>Booker shakes his head, pulling out his flask.  He offers it to her, but she declines so he just takes a swig and tucks it away again.  “What I mean is that you’re never going to find him.”</p><p>Nile frowns, clearly taken aback by the bluntness of the words.  “How do you know?”</p><p>“I know because it’s been five hundred years.  Joe has never stopped, not really.  And what does he have to show for it?”  Booker stares past the young woman in front of him, the sorrow lancing through his chest.  He twitches for his flask again.  “Nothing,” he answers, before she can.  “He has nothing.  No amount of devotion, of love, can do the impossible.”</p><p>He returns his gaze to her after a long moment of silence.  She’s staring, her brows drawn in close, dawning horror in the part of her lips.  “My family,” she says suddenly.  “I have to—I can talk to them, right?  You can help me with that?  Or at least… at least let me send a message to them to let them know I’m okay?”</p><p>Booker sighs, scrubbing a hand up his cheek.  “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” he says.</p><p>“Why not?” Nile asks, voice tinged with desperation.  “Andy said to talk to you, so tell me.”</p><p>It was always going to come to this, wasn’t it.  From the moment Booker went to see his family again, it was going to come to this.  Repeating the story, ripping off the scab on a barely healed wound—because that’s what this life is.  Just a series of wounds, physical and emotional, piled one on top of another.  And those wounds, well… the physical ones may heal but the emotional ones, all they do is <em>fester</em>.</p><p>At least he has the chance to spare her some of that pain.  It is with this in mind that he takes a deep breath and begins.</p><p>“I had three sons.  And the youngest one, Jean-Pierre… he was the last one to die.  He was forty-two when cancer took him.  The only way is forward, Nile.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” she asks, her eyes too sharp.</p><p>Well.  Can’t stop now.  Booker meets her gaze, forcing the words from his tongue.  “You will always and forever be the young woman right there.  But everyone around you… everyone you love… is gonna grow old, is gonna suffer, and is gonna die.”</p><p>He thinks, inexplicably, of the hospital, and Jean-Pierre, at the very end.  The hatred, the vitriol he spit—</p><p>Booker takes a slow breath, trying to breathe before he drowns.  Still, he does not stop.  “And if you try to—try to touch their lives?  Well, they will get to learn your secret.  They will beg you to share with them, but you won’t be able to.  And they won’t believe you, of course.  And they will tell you… that you don’t love them.  Or that your love is weak, or selfish.  And you will never forget… the hate and despair in their eyes.  And you will know what it is to lose… <em>everyone</em>, you’ve ever loved.”</p><p>And there it is.  Booker breaks eye contact, taking another drag from his flask.  Nile, before him, swallows… but she does not ask about contacting her family again.  Instead she looks past him, out toward where Joe’s voice wafts over on the breeze.  Her face is one part stricken, two parts contemplative.</p><p>“Maybe we won’t find him,” she says, and it takes Booker a moment to realize that she’s talking about Nicolo.  “But Joe doesn’t deserve to be alone.  I can do that for him.  And I can show Nicolo his love’s face in his dreams.  That’s something, at least.”</p><p>Booker hums, nodding.  “…Fair enough,” he says.  Then he turns away, leading her back toward the others, sliding his sunglasses back down onto his nose.  It’s an optimistic approach, as far as he’s concerned.  The optimism of someone who hasn’t yet seen all the pain their lives have to offer.  Naive.  But it’s still her choice, in the end.  As long as Joe doesn’t mind, she can play at this game of companionship.  It won’t be Booker’s problem for much longer.</p><p>And so it goes.  They say goodbye at the dock, Joe and Nile on the <em>Costante</em> and Andy, Quynh, and Booker on the shore.  Booker waits until the boat has set off before he walks away, settling again into the backseat of the car and pulling out his laptop.  He feels low, strung out—he contemplates only a moment before opening Copley’s messages. </p><p><em>I can</em><em>’t get samples to you</em>, he writes.  <em>But I can give you our location.  I will help you capture us.</em></p><p><em>All three of you?</em> Copley writes back.</p><p>Booker contemplates a long moment.  He thinks about Andy, about Quynh, about the glaze of eons they sometimes get in their eyes.  Then he thinks about Joe, Nicolo, about the fate of their love, separated by a vast, literal sea.  He thinks about Nile, about the pain and fear that she’ll have to face, one way or another.  He thinks about himself, about the sorrow in his chest.</p><p>Copley doesn’t know about Joe, Nicolo, and Nile.  Well, he has some idea about Joe—he’s tracked the stories of the ghost sailor, all the local legends and apocrypha, back about a hundred and fifty years.  He just hasn’t connected the dots about their connection, and he certainly hasn’t figured out why Joe searches or what he searches <em>for</em>. </p><p>It would be easier not to get Joe involved with Copley.  The logistics of trying to capture the <em>Costante</em> would be awful.  And Nicolo is lost to the sea, and Nile is so new…</p><p>Booker shakes his head.  Then, his contemplation done, he writes, <em>all three of us</em>. </p><p>It will be enough.  Enough to end his fate, to figure out what makes them tick.  He’ll give up Andy and Quynh—and himself, of course—and they will understand.  Eventually, they will all understand.  It will be okay.  Joe and Nile won’t even realize they’re missing for a good long while. </p><p>By then, god willing, he’ll have made it to the end.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy late Valentines lol.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Off the coast of the East Frisian Islands, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>They go in and—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—the fugitive raises his gun and—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—she shoots and—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—and—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—and—</em>
</p><p>With a gasp, Nile jerks awake, the fugitive’s pained cries echoing through the intervening days and hours.  Her breath comes too fast, and she casts a wild glance around the small bedroom—the cabin, Joe calls it—before the motion of the ship seeps through the panic and begins to ground her in the present. </p><p>It’s quickly becoming familiar.  As is the fact that she’s woken up alone.  She’s been on the ship for exactly two nights and already she knows that Joe barely sleeps, always up late into the night and rising early again come morning.  He’s probably fussing with the engines right now, his bed on the floor left unmade. </p><p>Nile sighs, her breathing slowly returning to normal, the cold sweat drying on her skin.  Dreaming of the man she killed… it’s a break from the nightmares of drowning, but she’s not so sure that it’s really any better.  Six of one, half dozen of another, as her mother says.  Nile presses her palms to her eyes for a long moment before rolling out of bed to change.</p><p>It takes a little while to find something suitable in the duffel bag that Quynh gave her.  Most of the clothes in it are eye-wateringly bright, only tempered by the occasional all-black outfit that Andy must have snuck in.  Nile appreciates the gesture… mostly… but she still feels a little out of place in the orange shirt and black pants she eventually settles on. </p><p>At least it’s better than wearing Joe’s overalls.  She’s never quite going to live down being seen in public in those.</p><p>The sun slants across the hallway outside the cabin’s door, coming from somewhere above as Nile makes her way out of the cabin.  She finds Joe a moment later, leaning against the fridge in the kitchen—or the galley, rather.  He’s fiddling with a can of pinto beans, searching for a spoon. </p><p>“Oh.  Good morning,” he says, catching sight of her and double-taking.</p><p>Nile frowns.  She’s stopped asking if he forgot that she’s here—the answer is usually yes.  She’s caught him talking to himself so many times in the past two days that she’s sometimes genuinely surprised when he’s talking to her.  Not that she really blames him.  He’s been alone a while.  And he’s kind of absent-minded, honestly.  Not in a ‘nothing upstairs’ kind of way, more in a ‘something else has his attention’ kind of way.  She’s getting used to it.</p><p>What she hasn’t gotten used to are the things he eats.</p><p>“That’s not breakfast,” she says, looking pointedly at the bean can. </p><p>Joe looks down, as well.  “What’s wrong with it?” he asks.  “I’ve seen military rations, why are you even complaining.”</p><p>Nile rolls her eyes.  “Are we talking <em>modern</em> military rations?  Because MREs are at least nutritionally balanced.  Don’t you have some eggs, at least?”</p><p>“Eggs.  On a ship,” Joe says, voice flat.  “Yes, of course I carry eggs, so that during the first sign of rough weather they can all crack and make a mess.”</p><p>Nile throws up her hands.  “You can do better than cold beans straight out of the can!” she says.  “Come on, Joe, work with me.”</p><p>Joe purses his lips.  “…I suppose I have some bacon in the freezer.  We can even put it in a bowl.  Would that please her highness?”</p><p>“It’s a start,” Nile sighs.  This guy.  He’d be the death of her if she could actually die.</p><p>Twenty minutes later finds the two of them out on the deck, Nile lounging on a cheap folding beach chair and Joe leaning on the railing, both eating warm beans and bacon.  It’s not the worst start to a day Nile has ever had, she’ll admit.  Even the quiet, held back by the lap of water on the hull and the scrape of forks, is comfortable. </p><p>This… this is her life now, she supposes.  For at least a while.  The <em>Costante</em> and its captain, with all their varied quirks… her eyes wander across the cramped deck, taking in machinery as she goes. </p><p>“Hey, Joe?” she calls, after a moment of this.</p><p>“Hm?” Joe says, looking over at her.</p><p>“You’re gonna teach me about the ship, right?”</p><p>Joe snorts.  “That was the plan.  Why, you trying to weasel out of it?”</p><p>“No.  I was just wondering what that is,” she says, pointing at one of the machines.</p><p>“That?  It’s a crane.”</p><p>“What kind of ship has a <em>crane</em> on it?”</p><p>“You’d be surprised.  Tugboats like this one have them to pull up salvage from the depths.  Fishing boats use them to haul in hundreds of pounds of fish at once.  Rescue ships will use them to lift up sinking boats.  Cargo ships move cargo.”  Joe scratches his beard with the hand holding his spoon, thinking.  “It’s really only luxury ships, yachts, and small vessels that don’t have cranes these days.”</p><p>Nile nods along.  Interesting, interesting… you learn something new every day.  “And the sonar?” she asks.  “Is that common?”</p><p>“Well, you can use it for everything from fishing to salvage, so.”  Joe scrapes at the bottom of his bowl, cramming one last spoonful in his mouth.  “Generally civilian vessels have one sonar machine, not three, though.  The <em>Costante</em> also has a magnetometer and two metal detectors, plus a mini-ROV.  It’s like a… remote controlled underwater drone, I guess you’d call it.”</p><p>Nile whistles.  “That must have cost a fortune.”</p><p>“You have no idea, kid.”  Joe pushes up, gesturing for Nile’s bowl.  “Come here, I’ll show you how they work.”</p><p>Nile does, following Joe into the control room—wheelhouse—and taking her seat.  She listens as Joe explains the basics of sonar, flipping on one that he calls a <em>Humminbird</em>.  The images come clear after a moment—the three sonar machines are set to each display a different type of image, Joe says, so he can get a better idea of the sea floor at just a glance. </p><p>From there they move on to the metal detectors and magnetometer, then the engines and their controls, Joe giving Nile a crash course in steering and maintenance.  She learns quickly that the <em>Costante</em> is officially classed as a salvage boat, the kind that searches the sea floor for shipwrecks and lost shipping containers.  Joe jokingly calls himself a treasure hunter, snorting as he does.</p><p>“People understand salvage work,” Joe says.  “I just fail to mention that I’m searching for a different kind of treasure.”</p><p>They begin moving soon after that, Nile frowning as the sonar images scroll past.  She doesn’t yet understand what all the different colors and shapes mean, but she supposes that will come in time.  For now she has to trust Joe’s judgment when he suddenly points at a shadow on the sonar and declares it metal.  A moment later the magnetometer goes off.</p><p>“Told you.  It’s significantly rusted, at least a few years old,” he says, circling back until the boat is right on top of it.  He’s got his eyes locked on the sonar, frowning at it, a distant look to his gaze.</p><p>Nile bites her lip.  “Do you think it’s…?”</p><p>Joe shakes himself out of it.  “No.  Wrong size.  But I haul up a lot of the things I find—sometimes it’s hard to know what I’m looking at from the surface.  Keeps the equipment in working order.  Also breaks the monotony a bit.”  He pauses, squinting a little.  “…I’m guessing that’s a piece of metal plating off a ship’s hull.  Some hippie artist will pay probably too much for that.”</p><p>“So you do it to pay bills?” Nile jokes.  “Can’t escape taxes even when you’re immortal, huh?”</p><p>Joe huffs.  “As if.  We’re not exactly hurting, not with the jobs the others take on.”</p><p>“So why do you need the money?” Nile asks, confused.</p><p>“I don’t.  Here.” He leans over and pulls a newspaper cutout off the wall, handing it over.  It’s a few years old, and the picture shows a woman and a man, both older, beside a boat even smaller than the <em>Costante</em>.  “I send the money to them.  Anonymously.”</p><p>Nile reads the article.  It’s about a couple who call themselves ‘civilian sonar experts’.  Apparently they’ve been recovering the cars and bodies of missing people in water across the USA since 2005, at no cost to the families of the missing people.  They’ve dedicated their lives to it, and they rely entirely on donations.</p><p>Nile is almost at the end when a line hits her, and she swallows hard.  “Joe?” she says, voice low under the rumble of the engines.  “It says they never find anyone alive.  Is that why you…?”</p><p>Joe doesn’t look over, focused on the sonar, but she can tell by the tension in his shoulders that she’s hit something.  A nerve, perhaps.  She shuts her mouth, waiting to see what he’ll do next.</p><p>It takes a moment, but eventually he releases the breath he was holding.  “They do it to give families closure,” he says.  “I thought it was the least I could do.  I’m the only loved one of a drowning victim who can expect to see their loved one alive and breathing again, after all.”</p><p>Nile nods, silently handing the clipping back.  Joe tacks it back to the wall, careful of the thin paper.  Then he cuts the engines, hands braced on the control panel.</p><p>For a moment the ship is silent, the two of them alone on a vast sea, no land in sight.  Then Joe shakes himself, glancing once more at the piece of metal on the sonar as if to size it up.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, as if continuing a conversation.  “I’m willing to haul that up.”  Then he turns to Nile, an oddly sharp smile on his face. </p><p>“…What?” Nile asks, wary.</p><p>The smile only grows sharper.  “How do you feel about deep sea diving?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Edge of the Frisian Front, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Alright,” Joe says.  He’s currently halfway inside a crate of diving equipment, looking for that one wetsuit that was a size too small for him.  “Normally—and I mean that in a very loose sense because hardly anything that happens on the <em>Costante</em> can ever be called normal—I would send down the mini-ROV to see exactly what we’re looking at.  However.  I am fairly certain I know what the debris is and where it’s located, so I think—ah, <em>shit</em>—”</p><p>He pauses a moment, rubbing the spot on his head that he just hit on the side of the crate.  Where the hell is that <em>wetsuit</em>?</p><p>Ah.  There it is.  He holds it up to Nile, contemplating.  Might be a little big, but they can make do.</p><p>Nile frowns at him.  “You think…?” she prods.</p><p>Right.  “I think it’s fine to dive blind this time,” Joe says, and passes the wetsuit over so he can scrounge up his spare diving mask. </p><p>“I see.  Do you do all of this by hand?” Nile asks, turning the wetsuit this way and that with a skeptical look on her face.</p><p>“All of what?” Joe grunts.  Where are his damn <em>gauges</em> when he needs them?!</p><p>“Diving,” Nile says.  Then, when Joe takes a moment too long to respond, says, “You know, going down to get shit off the sea floor.”</p><p>Joe snorts.  “Oh, no.  Humans can’t really dive deeper than three hundred meters with modern tech.  Well, they can, but it’s tough, even for us.  For deeper debris I send down remote controlled clamps.  They’re finicky little shits, though, so I tend to do what I can by hand.”</p><p>Nile stares for a long moment, her mouth slightly ajar, before she snaps it closed and says, “Wait, hold up.  That can’t be right.  Three hundred <em>meters</em>?  What’s that in feet, like… <em>nine hundred</em>?”</p><p>Joe pauses his foraging to nail her with a look of distaste.  “Feet?  How very American of you.”</p><p>“Excuse me for being born in Chicago,” Nile mutters.  Joe just shakes his head, turning back to the crate and the mess that is beginning to take over the deck. </p><p>Fifteen minutes later, Joe has Nile fully suited up, his own gear on as well.  He checks her BCD to make sure it’s secure as he gives her a lowdown of how to dive, what they’re going to do once they’re down there, and all the safety precautions he can think of.  Nitrogen narcosis and depressurization of gas tanks and… he’s definitely forgetting something.</p><p>Oh.  Right.  The bends.</p><p>“Whatever happens,” he says, nailing Nile with a <em>look</em>, “do <em>not</em> ascend faster than me.  The bends are just about the most painful way to die.  Trust me.  Learn from my mistakes.”</p><p>Nile stares, her eyes a little too wide.  “Exactly how many times have you died of the bends?” she asks.</p><p>Joe huffs a laugh that he doesn’t really feel and wiggles a hand noncommittally.  “More times than I want to think about,” he says, and then begins lowering the crane’s chain down into the water.  They’ll use it to haul the metal up onto the ship after they’ve secured it.  “You ready?”</p><p>Nile opens her mouth, glances at the water, and closes it again.  Not exactly an enthusiastic response. </p><p>“…What is it?” Joe asks, starting to get impatient.  If he was on his own he’d be in the water already—he doesn’t have time for this.</p><p>With a grimace, Nile pulls at the cuff of her gloves.  “It’s just… we’re moving a little fast, aren’t we?  I’m pretty sure you don’t dive to thirty meters on the first day of lessons.  Right?”</p><p>Joe stares at her for a moment.  Then he lets out another bark of not-quite-laughter.  “You were a marine,” he says at long last.  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”</p><p>“It’s a little hard to enjoy the thought of being down there when I already dream about it,” Nile snaps.</p><p>That sobers Joe.  Any pretense of humor drops as he realizes exactly what she means.  “Then you understand,” he says, slow and somehow steady, “why we can’t waste time.”</p><p>Nile winces.  “I know.  Joe, I know,” she says, holding up her hands in a placating gesture.  “But you know what you’re doing—how about I watch you the first time and try it the next?”</p><p>Joe sighs.  Then he nods, dragging a hand down his face.  “Yeah.  Yeah, sorry.  That’s probably best.”</p><p>He feels bad that he got impatient with her.  He feels even worse when at those words her shoulders slump in relief.  She just escaped from what was basically a torture chamber with a scientific veneer, has had her entire life turned upside down and ripped apart, and now dreams nightly of drowning again and again with no reprieve.  He shouldn’t have pushed her. </p><p>He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment.  He’s just… he hasn’t been around people in a long time.  The last people he really interacted with were Andy and Quynh, and neither of them are what you might call ‘normal’ or ‘adjusted’.  They never had a problem diving down into the depths, but that probably has more to do with their adrenaline junkie ways than anything else.</p><p>What must it be like, to be freshly immortal?  To suddenly be thrust into this strange, upside down world?  It’s been so long since he was that man.  And he and Nicolo… they were never alone.  Not even at their lowest points, exhausted and bloodied and locked in never-ending battle, did they ever have to face this life alone.</p><p>Not until the iron maiden. </p><p>Joe looks past Nile, his eyes locked on the water behind her.  The sea is many things—beautiful, dazzling, and alluring, to name a few.  But it’s also unforgiving, a vast expanse nearly inhabitable to humans.  Sail across its surface, dive a couple hundred meters down—exist on the fringes, and you’ll probably be okay.  Keyword: probably.  You can still get caught in a storm or take a gouge out of your ship’s hull with a reef, both at once if you’re particularly unlucky, and then you become just another woeful tale that the sailors sing shanties of.</p><p>Thankfully, Joe hasn’t done either of those things in a good long while.  He’s adept enough at tending to his craft and sailing the seas to not run out of fuel and strand himself in the doldrums without food and water like some kind of idiot, either.  Still… he should know the fear.  The inescapable pressure of a million, a trillion gallons of water above your head.  He should know.  He should <em>know</em>.</p><p>“…Joe?”</p><p>Joe blinks, roughly shaking himself out of it.  “Sorry.  Here, take this—I’ll radio up once I have the debris secured and you can hit the winch.  It’s easy enough, just make sure you don’t change the speed, like this.  Stop it about halfway up for three minutes, and again fifteen feet down.  Can you handle that?”</p><p>Nile takes the transceiver he hands over, looking less skeptical now as she gives a firm salute.  Joe nods back, slips his full-face mask into place, does a last minute check of his own gear, and then, without further ado, goes over the edge of the railing.  He hits the water in a rush of bubbles, sinking down, down, down.</p><p>The dive goes well.  It takes about seven minutes to dig out the metal sheet, gloves scraping through the mud, and another two minutes to get the chains secured before Joe is signaling for Nile to bring them up.  She does it perfectly, stopping exactly where he said to stop for the appropriate amount of time, guiding them toward the sky until Joe’s head breaks the surface.  He holds onto the chains and coaches Nile through turning the crane so that they swing slowly over the deck, his mask pushed up onto his curly hair.  She lowers them down carefully.</p><p>Joe hops down, dripping everywhere, a wet slap of flippers on the deck.  “Good job,” he says, and leans down to pry off the flippers.  He’s on his knees a moment later, examining the metal sheet.  He runs his fingers over the eroded paint and the rust spots eating through it, muttering as he goes.</p><p>“What language is that?” Nile asks, kneeling beside him after a moment.</p><p>“Hm?” Joe says, distracted.</p><p>“You were speaking something.  Italian?  Sort of?”</p><p>“Oh.  That’s Genoese.  Nicolo’s native tongue.  You’ll learn it soon enough.”</p><p>Nile turns, frowning.  “I will?”</p><p>“Sure.  After you learn everything there is to know about rescue first aid and get a crash course in marine biology,” Joe says, and stands again, clapping her on the shoulder as he goes.  “I’ve got a lot to teach you, kid.  This?  This is only the tip of the iceberg.  Now come on, we need to move this thing down to the hold and get back to the sonar.  Got a lot of distance to cover.”</p><p>Nile says something under her breath at that, something that sound a little like, “oh, boy.”  Still, she doesn’t lag behind as he gets ready to move the metal sheet off the deck, following close on his heels.</p><p><em>Good</em>, Joe thinks.  He doesn’t intend to go easy on her.  Not today, not tomorrow, and certainly not the day after that.  She’ll be diving the depths soon enough, mark his words. </p><p>And maybe… one day… he’ll be able to introduce her to Nicolo as his first mate.</p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Further down the edge of the Frisian Front, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nile’s first day on the <em>Costante</em> was an experience, to say the least.  Meeting Joe and learning his story, waking in the night with the taste of salt on her tongue and learning <em>that</em> story… it was a lot, a peek into a world so acutely different than the one she came from that she was reeling.  Day two, even more so, after meeting three others and deciding on a whim to accompany Joe on his zigzagging quest across the sea.  Thankfully by day three things had begun to mellow out—the learning curve was steep, but so was bootcamp, and Nile made it through that in one piece.  She has faith that she’ll make it through this, too.</p><p>Which brings her to day four.  Nile knows right from the start that it’s going to be an interesting one.  When Joe wakes her early to help with some idiots on a yacht who got stranded just off the coast of a tiny island called Texel, muttering to himself about <em>rich white people</em> all the while?  Yeah, day four is sure going to be <em>something</em>.</p><p>“How often do you do stuff like this?” Nile asks, peering blearily out the back windows of the wheelhouse at the rowdy bunch of (yes, rich and white) people on the deck of the yacht.  They’re cheering and yelling, clearly having been out all night and too drunk to care about that fact that they ran out of fuel and had to be towed to shore.</p><p>Joe grunts, his lip curling.  “Too damn often,” he says.  “I try not to make it a habit but they don’t make that easy for me.”  Then he shakes his head, frowning at the horizon like it’s done him a personal disservice. </p><p>As soon as they’re done towing the yacht to the nearest dock, Nile shuffles back down to the cabin, reaching under the pillow she’s been using for the scrap of paper waiting there.  She pulls it out and steals one of the pens out of the box of art supplies, marking a fourth tally on it.  A fourth tally for a fourth day.  The fourth day of the rest of her life.</p><p><em>That</em><em>’s going to be a lot of days</em>, she thinks, creasing the paper and tucking it away again.  She calculated how many days she’d been alive once.  She was only eight at the time, but it still came out to over three thousand.  She can’t imagine trying to figure out that math for Joe, or Quynh, or Andy.  Even Booker’s two hundred years is daunting.  How many sunsets is that?  How many sunrises?  How many lives… and how many deaths? </p><p>Nile gently strokes a hand across her throat, knowing she won’t feel anything but smooth skin and still looking, all the same.  She wonders if Joe still feels the ache of all the deaths he’s died.  Maybe she’ll ask him today.</p><p>First, clothes.  She digs through the duffel bag of things that are now hers, hoping for a normal colored t-shirt.  What she finds instead is a flowing green camisole with lace around the neckline.  It’s… not awful, she decides, holding it up.  Not really her color—she prefers warm colors, honestly—but it’ll do.</p><p>Once she’s done dressing herself, Nile heads out to the galley, face already set in a grimace.  She can hear Joe puttering around, cursing as he opens and shuts things.  Her hopes for a decent breakfast are not particularly high, but maybe she can bully him into making some bagel sandwiches.  One can only hope.</p><p>What she doesn’t expect is to find Joe leaning down to peer into a mirror that is propped up on the counter, hacking at his beard with a comb and a pair of old-looking scissors.</p><p>“Do you normally groom yourself in the kitchen?” Nile asks, her nose wrinkling.</p><p>Joe grunts.  “Not enough room in the bathroom.  Not that this is much better…”</p><p>Nile frowns.  “…I guess I’ll wait for you to finish before I get started on breakfast,” she mutters.  She flops into a chair, eyeing him for a long moment.  He doesn’t say anything else to her, focusing on his hands.  Despite the brusque motions of pulling the hair out with the comb and snipping at it with the scissors he looks almost… contemplative.</p><p>For a moment Nile is tempted to ask about it.  She opens her mouth a couple of times, the question on the tip of her tongue, but after a moment she just closes it again.  She waits.</p><p>He finishes with the beard about ten minutes later, turning his attention to the top of his head.  Curls fall away, piling up on the towel he’s set down on the counter, and for a strange moment Nile wonders who Joe is underneath.</p><p>He finishes with that, too, after a while, shaking his head out over the towel.  It’s a little uneven in the back, but when Nile points it out Joe only shrugs. </p><p>“I didn’t cut my hair the first three years after he was thrown overboard,” he says, when Nile offers to fix it for him.  Nile bites her lip, watching as his eyes go distant for a moment before focusing back on her.  “It felt wrong, frivolous, to attend to my looks when my love was trapped down at the bottom of the sea.”</p><p>“Well you clearly cut it now,” Nile says.</p><p>“It became impractical.  Five hundred years worth of hair is too much for any man.”  Joe sighs, a heavy sound, and begins to fold up the towel.  “Nicolo may well be suffocating on his hair more than the water at this point.”</p><p>Nile nods.  Then she shoos him and his scissors from the kitchen so that she can pull together a decent breakfast for the two of them.</p><p>Moments like that happen fairly often.  As she settles into life on the ship, Nile asks about everything she sees, and most of the answers she gets have to do with Nicolo, in one way or another.  Despite the time and the distance, he never seems to stray far from Joe’s mind. </p><p>It’s something that works in Nile’s favor.  She’s noticed in the past four days that Joe has thoughts and opinions on just about everything one could possibly have them on.  Ask the right questions and off he goes, ranting about this or that or the other thing.  Sometimes he’ll get so worked up that he seems to forget she’s even there, talking more at the vast sea itself than to the human being sitting right next to him. </p><p>It’s a blessing, when Nile gets overwhelmed with all of the rescue first aid that Joe is teaching her.  Starvation and hypothermia and the effects of drowning on the body… it’s a lot, and there’s no end in sight.  It’s a ceaseless flow of information, a rolling film reel of what can go wrong with a human at the bottom of the sea. </p><p>“You’ve, uh, put a lot of thought into this,” Nile says, after their first real lesson.  Joe has just covered at least three chapters of a medical textbook, rote.  Her head is spinning.</p><p>Joe, unmoved, just gives her a dead stare.  Nile coughs and changes the subject.</p><p>***</p><p>They’re about a week in before the constant beep of the metal detector and the various instruments starts to get to Nile. </p><p>She’s in the wheelhouse, trying to make out the various shapes on a section of the sonar map, when she realizes that she’s been staring at the same spot for at least five minutes.  Between the nightmares and Joe’s lessons she’s just… she’s feeling a little <em>strung out</em>. </p><p>“Hey Joe?” she calls, an idea coming to her. </p><p>Joe grunts from where he stands at the helm. </p><p>“How about we put on some music?”</p><p>“Don’t have a music player.”</p><p>Nile pouts.  Of course not.  But if they <em>got</em> a music player…</p><p>She hums, tapping a finger on the arm of her chair.  “It’s just… I thought we could put on something that Nicolo might like.  Just around the ship.  So that if he dreams of me maybe he’ll hear it.”</p><p>Joe pauses, his hands stilling on the controls.  She knows she has him when his shoulders slump. </p><p>“…I would, but I… everything has changed so much,” he says, pained.  “I don’t… I wouldn’t know what to play, what he would like.”</p><p>Oh.  Nile fumbles, searching for the right thing to say.  She settles on something simple, just: “That’s okay.  Do you… do you know what <em>you</em> like?”</p><p>Joe chews on his lip, eyes down, thinking.</p><p>“…There is one song,” he says, at long last.</p><p>“Great!” Nile says.  “What song is that?  If Booker sends the album to us we can get some speakers for your computer and play it.”</p><p>“It kind of goes…”  Joe hums a few bars, raising his brows at Nile as if expecting her to get it.</p><p>She does not. </p><p>“Uh.  Hm,” she says.  “When exactly did you hear this song?”</p><p>“It was the seventies.  Or maybe the sixties?  …No, no, definitely the seventies.  It was playing in a shop.”</p><p>Nile stares, an acute sense of despair rolling over her.  The seventies… that is an entire <em>decade</em>.  A decade <em>fifty years ago</em>, no less.  “You realize I was born in the nineties, right,” she says, beginning to wonder if Joe has any grasp on the date at all.</p><p>Joe shrugs helplessly.</p><p>Nile sighs, rubbing her forehead.  “…Okay, no.  You know what?  We can figure this out.  We’ll play twenty questions and I’ll find you your song.”</p><p>“What’s twenty questions?” Joe asks.</p><p>With a quirk of her lip, Nile leans back in her chair, crossing her legs at the ankle.  “It’s a road trip game, and basically the rules are that you think of something and I ask you twenty yes or no questions.  If I can’t guess what the thing is at the end of the twenty questions I lose.  Ready?”</p><p>Joe nods.</p><p>“Good.  First question—”</p><p>And off she goes, asking as many identifying questions as she can.  It’s hard, because Joe isn’t familiar with any modern artists or genres and Nile isn’t familiar with many older ones, but they make do.  She spends long minutes wracking her brains for the old cassettes they used to play around the house when she was really little, before her mom gave in and bought a CD player. </p><p>It comes to her all at once, the notes Joe hummed giving her the final push she needs to figure it out.  “That’s Credence Clearwater Revival!” she crows.  “Have You Ever Seen The Rain!  Bet!”</p><p>Joe snorts.  “I’d rather not.  I have a feeling I’d lose money.”</p><p>Nile waves him off.  “I don’t mean a literal bet.  Now Joe…”</p><p>Joe looks over.  “What?” he asks, frowning.</p><p>Nile grins.  “How do you feel about a shopping trip?” she asks.</p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>The IJ, Amsterdam waterfront, Netherlands, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You aren’t seriously going to make me go alone.”</p><p>“Hm?” Joe says.  He doesn’t lift his head from where he’s hunched over one of his many maps.  He’s been muttering to himself about the winter all morning—why, Nile has no idea, considering it’s still several months away.  A moment later he processes what she’s said and frowns.  “Why wouldn’t I send you alone?” he asks.</p><p>“Because the entire world is after me and my abilities?” Nile says.</p><p>“You have a burner phone, you have a gun—just call me if you need me,” Joe says, waving a hand.  “I’ll come find you if you don’t show at the meeting spot.”</p><p>“Joe—come on, man, don’t do this to me.  I don’t even know what language they speak here!”</p><p>“Dutch, mostly,” Joe says absently. </p><p>Nile throws up her hands.  “You can’t be serious!”</p><p>“What, about the Dutch?”</p><p>Nile groans.  “No, not about the Dutch!  About this!  This whole thing!  About just—turning me loose in a foreign land and expecting me to be <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>“You didn’t do too badly in Germany,” Joe says, the frown deepening.</p><p>“I was minutes away from being recaptured when you arrived,” Nile reminds him.  Then she employs her best youngest-child impersonation, widening her eyes and saying, “Please?  <em>Please</em> help me?”</p><p>Joe sighs, finally looking up from the map to roll his eyes toward the ceiling.  He frowns at it for a long moment, as if waiting for divine intervention—when none comes he sighs again, louder, and says, “Yes, alright, <em>fine</em>.  We’ll go together.  Just don’t expect me to spend all day screwing around.”</p><p>Nile grins, pumping her fist in the air.  <em>That</em><em>’s</em> more like it.</p><p>Ten minutes later they hit the streets of Amsterdam, armed with a handful of cash that Joe traded the sheet of rusted metal for a bit further up the river.  Nile has a pair of sunglasses pulled down over her eyes, a colorless flannel from Joe’s drawers over her shoulders, and a pair of salt-crusted boots on her feet.  She can only hope that the retail workers take pity on her as she beelines for the nearest clothing store.  Joe follows along, greeting the store workers in Dutch before he settles beside her at a rack of discounted clothing.</p><p>“We should be doing something useful,” he says, frowning.  He always seems to be frowning.</p><p>“We can be.  What’s the Genoese word for pants?” Nile asks.  They’ve been trading vocabulary on and off for the past few days, having decided to spice things up with a little language learning.  It can’t be all survival all the time—sometimes you’ve got to work on your communication skills.  Nile understands that.  That was her main motivation for picking up Pashto, after all.</p><p>She glances up, encouraging Joe to speak.  He does after a moment, short and clipped.  “<em>M</em><em>ûande</em>.”</p><p>Nile takes a moment to sound out the Genoese word, trying to mimic Joe and make the shape of it.  When she’s satisfied that she’s got that one she points at a shirt on a hanger, and then the rack, and then the floor, working at the words in the hopes that doing so will make Joe look a little less like a fish out of water.</p><p>Unfortunately, he’s not looking any less on edge by the time they finish with clothes and head into a music store that looks more like a junk shop than anything else.  Nile purses her lips and leans down in front of a display case.  There are a handful of smartphones—she points at one with a question.  Joe immediately vetoes it, shaking his head.</p><p>“Too easy to track,” he says.  “Don’t trust ‘em.”</p><p>Nile hums.  “How about an iPod, then?”</p><p>“A what?”</p><p>“It’s a handheld music player.  Apple makes them.  Most of them don’t have a network connection.”</p><p>She expects Joe to relent at that, but he only makes a face, lip curling.  “<em>Apple</em> is not getting a single cent of my money, thank you,” he says, and turns away.</p><p>Nile turns with him, looking around to see what other options there are.  “Uh… why?” she asks as she walks a little further down to peruse a selection of used MP3 players, just to keep him talking.</p><p>Joe huffs, following.  “Two words: proprietary software.”</p><p>“What is that?”</p><p>“Stupid, is what it is,” Joe mutters.  Then, when Nile raises an eyebrow, says, “It’s a capitalist scheme that all the big tech companies play at.  They make it impossible for people to actually own their own devices, forcing them to shell out extra money in order to have a ‘professional’ fix it when it breaks.  This is despite the fact that the price was overinflated to begin with, mind you—”</p><p>And there he goes.  Nile nods along, letting him rant about planned obsolescence and bloatware and six hundred other things that she doesn’t understand.  Finally, however, she has to laugh.</p><p>He pauses mid-rant.  “What?” he asks, miffed.</p><p>“Nothing.  Just.  How do you know all that but you don’t know what ‘hair metal’ is?”</p><p>Joe scoffs, turning away for a moment to stare out the front windows of the shop before turning back to Nile.  “I may have been alone, but I wasn’t blind,” he says.</p><p>His voice, previously clipped, has now sharpened into something like a warning tone.  What it’s warning of, exactly, Nile has no idea, but it’s there all the same.</p><p>“So, what, you’ve been watching stocks?” she asks after a moment, trying to crack a joke and lighten the mood.</p><p>It doesn’t land.  Joe just frowns, shifting from one foot to the other, even more on edge than he was earlier.  “It may come as a shock,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now but still just as sharp, “but exploitation isn’t a twenty-first century invention.  The only difference is that now the stakes are so much higher.”</p><p>Nile blinks.  “I mean… I get that, but why do you care?”</p><p>Joe’s lip curls.  “Why wouldn’t I?  Do you have any idea how long it took for high powered sonar to become declassified after world war two?  There are still designs that the military used to detect U-boats that they won’t release to the public.”  He shakes his head jerkily, his eyes a little too wide, a little too intent on her.  “I’m old enough to see the patterns.  I was there for the industrial revolution.  I watched sailing ships become steam ships become diesel.  I know what I’m talking about when I say that everything good that you know, every advancement, came at a price, and it wasn’t the big companies and the billionaires who paid it.”</p><p>Nile swallows, glancing around the shop.  No one is looking at them, and he’s speaking English instead of Dutch, but she’s suddenly wary of being overheard.  “Joe—” she starts.</p><p>“It never changes,” he says, cutting her off.  A prickling energy thrums through him; there’s something frenetic about his movements now, small as they are.  His weight shifts, his fingers flex, his mouth twitches.  Nile watches and feels like she’s approaching an open oven, wave after wave of heat wafting toward her.  Any closer and she’ll burn. </p><p>Still, he does not stop. </p><p>“I’ve seen armies,” he says, and there is unimaginable sorrow in his voice now, a thousand years lanced through it like shattered glass.  “I’ve seen war.  I saw crusaders cross the desert into the holy land with a call of <em>deus vult</em> to slaughter entire cities.  And who was it who called for the bloodshed?  The pope, high and mighty, with hardly a finger lifted.  Men sent to slaughter and then die, with nothing but the promise of heaven left to their names.  The slaughter, the slaves, the sweatshops—can’t you see?  Can’t you—?”</p><p>He stops there, hands raised as if to grasp her.  His eyes drill into hers, a plea on his lips.  Nile tries not to shrink under the intensity of his stare.  It’s heavy, as heavy as the sky, but at the same time there is an unfathomable distance to him, as if he isn’t really here at all.  He is gone, so far as to be unreachable.  His hands, usually so steady on the wheel of his craft, are shaking. </p><p>…Suddenly Nile thinks that maybe taking him out shopping wasn’t the best idea.</p><p>Swallowing hard, Nile glances around once more, hoping to find a quiet corner for them to sit for a bit.  There are too many people here, though, and after a moment she winds up leading him outside. </p><p>A few minutes later they're around the back of the building, Joe sitting on the curb running his hands repeatedly through his hair, his head down and his shoulders hunched.  He keeps drawing in long, shaking breaths, like he’s trying to calm himself.  Nile, sitting beside him with her shopping bags set carefully on the asphalt, isn’t sure it’s working. </p><p>“…Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, after a long moment.</p><p>Joe twitches.  “Sorry, I—I don’t know what came over me.  I don’t know…”</p><p>He shudders, scrubbing his hands through his hair a little more harshly now.  He looks a little like a child like this, upset and curled up smaller than he was ever meant to be.  He looks half a moment away from gripping his hair and pulling, all the emotions that have been building up inside him turned inward in a sudden fury.</p><p>“Joe… it’s okay,” Nile says, before it gets to that.  She reaches out, intending to rub his back in a comforting manner.  Her mama used to do that for her when she cried, and it always made her feel better.  Before her hand touches Joe, however, she hesitates, the ache of <em>I miss my mom</em> blooming in her chest.  She swallows and lets her hand fall away again.  “You don’t have to apologize,” she says instead.</p><p>“I do,” he says.  “I just—I’m—it’s—”</p><p>He barks a laugh as the words peter away, the sound of it harsh, like air being forced through a thin metal tube.  His lips are twisted in a caricature of a smile.  Nile bites her lip, feeling more lost and helpless than she did wandering around on her own in Germany.  At least then she had a plan.  She had something to search for, a heading to follow.  Right now… god, she doesn’t have <em>anything</em>.  She doesn’t know what’s wrong, doesn’t know what’s right, doesn’t know what to do or how to help—she feels like she’s eleven years old all over again, watching her mom break down crying in the soap aisle at the grocery store.  Like she’s watching the arm of a hurricane, a great mass of clouds and rain and whipping wind, and it’s driving right for her, immense and inescapable. </p><p>She doesn’t have the words to comfort a man who has been barely holding himself together on the knife’s edge of grief for five hundred years.  She keeps her mouth shut. </p><p>Eventually, Joe’s breathing evens out, his head settling in his hands.  He makes a vague sort of noise when she asks if he wants to finish shopping.  A few minutes later Nile sighs and walks back into the shop alone.  She casts a pinched glance at the iPods in the case before moving aside, walking instead toward the crates of CDs at the back of the room.</p><p>It’s easy enough to find what she needs there.  A CD player, a pair of portable speakers with a headphone jack instead of a bluetooth connection, a couple of CDs and—wait a moment.  Are those books?</p><p>…They are.  And would you look at that, there’s an entire box of old paperback romance novels.  Nile contemplates for only a moment before she sets to digging. </p><p>She’s nearly at the bottom of the box when a particular cover catches her eye.  She recognizes those characters—that’s the same couple as the gothic bodice ripper in Joe’s cabin.  Nile snorts, flipping it over to read the summary on the back. </p><p>God, where do these authors get these <em>ideas</em>?</p><p>A few minutes later, Nile exits the store, walking around to the back once more.  Joe, thankfully, is exactly where she left him.  He looks a little calmer than he did before, now leaning back on his hands and staring up into the sky like it holds the secrets of the universe.  He looks over as Nile approaches—she holds up the bag with her bounty in it, giving him an encouraging smile.  “Ready to head back?” she asks.</p><p>Joe nods, standing.  He still has a haunted look about him, the look of a man lost on familiar streets.  He’s withdrawn as he takes the bags from her and carries them silently back to the boat.  Nile allows it for now, focusing on keeping pace with him.  She waits until they’re on board before she takes the bags from him once more and clears her throat, drawing his attention before he can disappear into the wheelhouse.</p><p>“How do I say thank you in Genoese?” she asks.</p><p>“…<em>Mer</em><em>çì</em>,” he says, and lifts the corner of his lips in a strained smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.</p><p>Nile nods, rolling the word out on her tongue.  “<em>Mer</em><em>çì</em>,” she says, and hands Joe the book she found in the back of the shop. </p><p>He stares at it for a long moment before he takes it, cracking a smile, a real one this time.  “…I didn’t know there was a sequel,” he says.</p><p>“Well, they never did get to the coast like they planned,” Nile says, tilting her head in a question.  <em>Are you okay?</em> she doesn’t ask.</p><p>“No, I don’t suppose they did,” Joe says, and she can hear an answer in the tone of his voice, now soft.  She thinks about five hundred years spent searching, four hundred more before that spent fighting… god.  She can hardly imagine the pain.  But as he pulls the book close to his chest, breathing out a long, slow breath, she understands that he’ll get through this.  He’ll be okay.  He will. </p><p>One day. </p><p>Eventually. </p><p>And she hopes, the feeling overtaking her all at once, that she’ll be around to see it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Broad fourteens, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The night after their day out shopping comes faster than Joe thinks it ought to, the blue sky deepening to velvety blackness in no time at all.  Maybe it has something to do with the sound of some newer artist—Frank Ocean, he thinks Nile said?—playing in the background.  Joe isn’t sure.  Whatever it is, however, the night is upon them. </p><p>For a long moment, Joe stands at the controls and contemplates turning on the spotlights mounted on either side of the wheelhouse so he can continue to search.  Unfortunately, however, it’s been a while since he ate.  He could go longer, he knows, but he finds that he isn't particularly interested in tempting the gods of fate just now.</p><p>He sighs, frowning out at the sea.  Then he gets to work shutting everything down.  The <em>Costante </em>and all her equipment deserves a break.</p><p>He finds Nile in the storage under the deck, poking around in the freezer for anything edible.  Joe winces—he should probably have picked up some fresh meat while they were in Amsterdam.  Hm.</p><p>Ah, fuck it.  Too late now.  He gives Nile what he hopes is a charming smile when she turns to look at him, a pained expression on her face.  Perhaps she won’t mention it.  They can just… go on with their days pretending that he’s a competent human being.</p><p>“Joe… you need some goddamn edible food in here.”</p><p>…So much for that.</p><p>With a sigh, Joe enters the storage room and starts to poke through the freezer with her.  “This isn’t so bad,” he says, pulling out a pack of frozen shrimp.  He traded a drawing of the shopkeeper’s wife for them, he remembers that.  That wasn’t too long ago.  A month, maybe?  Maybe two?  Three?  Can’t be more than four.</p><p>Nile shakes her head, pulling a face.  “I swear to god, if I die of food poisoning I’m going to throw you overboard,” she mutters.  Then she takes the shrimp, heading for the galley.</p><p>Joe follows, shame curling low in his gut.  First the thing at the music shop and now this… he should be better than this.  He should have his shit together by now.  Christ, what the hell is wrong with him?</p><p>Nope.  Not thinking about that now.  Joe pushes it from his mind as Nile enters the galley and begins opening cabinets.  “Where are your pans?” she asks. </p><p>Joe moves past her and pulls one from under the stove, hand held out for the shrimp.  “I’ve got it,” he says.</p><p>Nile raises an eyebrow.  “Literally every time I’ve seen you make food for yourself it’s come out looking like a five year old tried to make cereal.”</p><p>“Wow,” Joe says, blinking down at her.  “Got anything else you’d like to say while you’re at it?  Maybe you’d like to take a dig at my steering, too, huh?  Get that off your chest?”</p><p>Shaking her head, Nile nudges Joe away from the stove, a small smile on her face.  “Don’t take it personally.  I get it from my mom.  You put care into food—that was rule number one in the house growing up.”</p><p>Her voice is wistful, the smile growing a little sad.  Joe can understand that—he remembers Nicolo carefully cultivating his collection of spices as they traveled, making sure to label each one and begging Joe to help him find more when they started getting low.  Every time Joe got to introduce him to a new spice it was like watching the sun come up over the horizon.</p><p>Joe swallows the memory, suddenly feeling less hungry.  Yeah… that he understands.</p><p>“You gonna stand in my way the whole time?” Nile asks, shaking him from his thoughts.  Joe pouts, but moves away to give her some room to maneuver.  He settles instead at the minuscule table, pulling the walkie talkie off his belt so he can use it to prop up the novel that he stuck in the pocket of his cargo pants earlier, after Nile had wandered off to get the music set up.  It was… god, it was really kind of her to give it to him.  It’s just a silly little book, but the fact that she saw it and thought he would like it… it’s just… he isn’t sure how to explain why it makes him so soft.  A dumb gag gift shouldn’t make him feel like some of the weight was lifted off his shoulders, but here he is, feeling lighter all the same.</p><p>It’s been a long time since he experienced anything like that, to say the very least. </p><p>Joe hums.  He'd rather not think about that, either, right now.  He just wants to settle in and have a quiet night, he thinks.  That sounds nice.</p><p>That decided, he settles in to read, pulling a pen from his pocket as he does.  He doesn’t think as he scrawls the sun and moon on the back of the front cover, just letting his hand do as it pleases.  It’s become a sort of ritual at this point, scribbling in his books as he reads them—notes and drawings all in Genoese, so that someday Nicolo can read them and perhaps share these moments with Joe in some distant way, in a future more hopeful than their past or even their present.   </p><p>Joe is so engrossed in penning the swooning heroine on page six that he doesn’t realize that Nile has set a plate down next to him until she clears her throat pointedly.</p><p>“I saw that in the other book,” she says.  “Do you deface all of your belongings like that?”</p><p>Joe snorts.  “What, you don’t?”</p><p>Nile shakes her head, sliding into the seat across from him with her own plate.  “I was taught to respect books, actually,” she sniffs.  Then the teasing drops and she nails Joe with a <em>look</em>. </p><p>“…What?” Joe asks, already up in arms.</p><p>“What do you mean, ‘what’?  We need to talk about what happened earlier.”</p><p>God, not this again.  Joe thought they’d dropped this when he couldn’t find his words out behind the music store in Amsterdam.  He frowns, swapping his pen for a fork to stab at a pathetic-looking green bean that has rolled away from the pile that Nile must have found to go with the shrimp.  Nile’s look, meanwhile, is only getting sharper the longer he stays silent.</p><p>…She isn’t going to let this drop.  Fuck.</p><p>Joe sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and down his beard.  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says at last.</p><p>Nile purses her lips.  “Well, how about we start at the beginning?”</p><p>“Beginning of what?” Joe asks, petulant.</p><p>“Joe…” Nile warns.</p><p>Fine.  God.  Joe pushes his plate away, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Look,” he says, and that feeling of shame has started to come back, growing up between his ribs.  “It was just… a moment.  I don’t like being away from the boat.”</p><p>Nile stares, waiting for more.</p><p><em>Ugh</em>.  Joe grits his teeth, jaw flexing.  Then he forces himself to relax and actually think about what happened earlier.  How he felt like a live wire the moment he stepped off the boat, how the feeling only got worse the longer they stayed out, how it all started to spiral out of control when he started to think about the last few years, decades, centuries of human suffering he’s seen—and that’s always it, isn’t it? </p><p>Because he’s supposed to help. </p><p>Andy helps, Quynh helps, Booker helps. </p><p>They do everything they can to make the world a better place.  And Joe… he doesn’t.  He has sacrificed the greater good for a chance to save one person, and he hasn’t even managed that.  Sure, he tows stranded boats to safety, and he’ll help the fisherman haul in their nets when he’s at the docks, and there has been once or twice when he rescued a swimmer from a riptide, but in the grand scope of things…</p><p>Joe sighs, exhaustion suddenly flooding through him.  “I just… it gets to me sometimes.  The guilt.  Because I… I chose to live this life.  Every day, every hour, I choose Nicolo over every other human being on this earth.  I have put aside everything, every one of my morals and dreams and relationships to find him.  So when I’m not even searching for him, when I’m not doing what I sacrificed everything for… when I’m not doing everything I can to find him…”</p><p>He looks up at Nile, helpless, hands splayed open as if beseeching her to understand.  He has to do this.  He has to find Nicolo.  Because Nicolo is everything, Nicolo is life and love and the reason that Joe wanted to save the world in the first place.  Only with Nicolo out of the water will the past five hundred years mean anything.  Only with Nicolo by his side will Joe ever be complete.</p><p>Nile doesn’t understand, not really, he can see it in her eyes.  She’s never felt love like that, the kind that burns hot and strong for a thousand years and will stay burning for another thousand more.  But she nods all the same, her eyes softening.</p><p>Joe nods back, swallowing hard.  She doesn’t understand… but she will.  One day.  One day she will meet Nicolo for herself, and she will see the beauty and grace and kindness that he brings to the world.  Until then the two of them, Nile and Joe, will have to be content with figuring each other out and learning how to walk this life side by side.  They will fall into step, they will learn to coexist.  They will get through this.</p><p>And… for the first time in a long time… Joe thinks it might be easier to do it together rather than alone, alone, alone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The update is a little early today &gt;:)</p><p>Also I haven't been adding author's notes on every chapter, but @gaydaractivate04 has continued to be a wonderful beta!  Thank you so much!</p><p>ALSO WE'RE OVER HALFWAY THROUGH LADS!!  HELL YEAH!!  Working on a sequel now, so there will be a bit more content after this one is complete.  Something to look forward to!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Southern Bight, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>On her fifteenth day on the <em>Costante</em>, Nile comes to a decision. </p><p>See, she’s noticed something in the past few weeks.  Joe, despite the strict schedule he keeps and the sometimes hard labor that he does, has trouble sleeping.  His insomnia is less obvious than the nightmares of drowning that wake her up again and again, night by night by night, but after so many days it’s become hard to miss the fact that Joe stays up long after she goes to bed every night and is up before she wakes every morning, always, without fail.</p><p>Correct Nile if she’s wrong, but after working on the ship for at least fifteen hours a day, that doesn’t leave a lot of down time to rest.</p><p>It’s concerning, to say the least.  Since becoming immortal, a lot of things have changed for Nile, but the need to sleep is not one of them.  She is still fundamentally human, after all.  She knows that Joe is tired—and fifteen days into her stay on the <em>Costante</em> she has decided to try and do something about it.</p><p>It’s easier said than done.  She has no idea when Joe gets up, or what he does while she’s still sleeping.  She figures based on that that her first step should be to just… gather intel.  Observe.  Figure out exactly what she’s dealing with.</p><p>With this in mind, Nile sets her internal alarm clock to wake her up earlier than normal.  It’s a skill she learned in the military, at boot camp—it’s come in pretty handy. </p><p>It’s still dark when she wakes up on day sixteen.  She yawns, rolls over, and—fuck.</p><p>How the hell is he up already?!</p><p>Groaning, Nile rolls onto her stomach, pressing her face into the pillow for a long moment.  Then she gets up and starts shuffling for the door, intent on finding him.</p><p>It takes a while.  At first she thinks he’s abandoned her somehow because all the rooms and compartments on the boat that she checks are empty.  Then she hears a splash.</p><p>Visceral terror seizes her in an instant.  Joe is overboard.  Joe is overboard and she was <em>asleep</em>. </p><p>Without another thought, Nile rushes to the side of the boat, leaning over the railing.  She can’t see much in the pre-dawn light and the dim glow of the lights mounted on the railing—a few bubbles and what might be a shadow moving far below.  He doesn’t surface, not after ten seconds… twenty seconds… fuck!  <em>Fuck!  </em>Nile learned to swim in boot camp but only enough to keep herself afloat until rescue—she can’t haul Joe to the surface on her own.  She casts a frantic look around her.  What does she do, what does she <em>do</em>—</p><p>—<em>the life saver</em>.</p><p>It’s then, as she is scrambling for the plastic orange donut hung at the front of the wheelhouse, that she hears Joe surface.  She pauses, torn, before grabbing the donut and skidding back to the railing, ready to heave it into the sea…</p><p>…only to find Joe lazily paddling around on his back, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, looking as serene as she’s ever seen him.  He blinks one eye open as she slumps against the railing, the surge of adrenaline leaving her shaking.</p><p>“Oh.  Hi Nile,” he says, as if they meet like this every morning and Nile didn’t just have a heart attack about having to save him. </p><p>Nile grunts, chucking the donut onto the deck behind her.  “Hello, Joe,” she says, feeling weary about the day already.</p><p>Joe hums, opening his other eye to look her up and down.  “It’s a little early for you to be up.  Another nightmare?”</p><p>“No.  I’m fine.  Just worried about you.  If it’s too early to be up, then why are you in the water?  Did you find something?”</p><p>Joe shrugs, his shoulders hunching up toward his ears for a moment before relaxing again.  “Nah.  This is just exercise.”</p><p>What.  “…Isn’t it cold?” Nile asks, confused. </p><p>“Yeah, but you get used to it,” Joe says, idly splashing.  Then he grins.  “Want to join me?”</p><p>The question takes Nile by surprise.  It shouldn’t, she knows, but after everything that’s happened, after all the dreams of Nicolo, she’s finding it just a <em>little</em> hard to fathom swimming for recreation.  She frowns down at the water—it’s deep and dark in the dim lighting, unfathomable.  Who knows what’s down there?  Who knows what the currents are like under the surface?  It just… seems like a huge risk.</p><p>“I’m a strong swimmer, you’ll be safe,” Joe says, as if reading her mind.  He twists suddenly, turning over and swimming a few paces as if to demonstrate before he turns back again.  “We can work up to diving if you want.”</p><p>Nile hesitates for a moment more, debating.  Then she remembers that she’s immortal, and you know what?  What the hell.  It’s not like this will kill her.  Not for good, anyway.</p><p>This decided, she strips down to her underwear and her tank top and climbs down the rope ladder hanging over the side of the railing, ignoring Joe’s urging to ‘just jump in’.  She dips a toe in when she gets to the bottom, and gasps at the sharp cold of the water.  She glances over at Joe—he’s watching, amused.</p><p>“How about it, marine?” he asks.</p><p>Nile huffs.  Then she lets go of the ladder and drops in all at once.</p><p>It’s a shock.  She flails her way back to the surface with a gasp, the cold surging through her limbs.  “Christ!” she yells, to the sound of Joe’s laughter.  After a moment, however, she feels a hand on her elbow, holding her steady.</p><p>“Doing all right?” Joe asks. </p><p>Nile nods, shivering.  “You’re f-fucking crazy,” she says.</p><p>“Hey, you’re the one who got in the water with me,” Joe says, miffed.</p><p>Nile shakes her head.  “Difference is I’m n-never doing this again now that I know how awful it is.”</p><p>“Oh, it’ll grow on you,” Joe says.  Then he grins.  “Want to race around the boat?  That’ll warm you right up.”</p><p>Nile agrees, and they get into position.  At Joe’s count the two of them set off, Nile kicking as hard as she can as she tries to stroke properly with her arms.  She’s graceless, she knows she is, but Joe is right—the bite of the cold isn’t so bad when she’s moving.  She keeps her head down, pushing forward—until she happens to glance up and see Joe.</p><p>He’s already a few feet ahead of her, strong arms slashing through the water.  She’d wondered how he kept in shape—the ship is too small for any kind of gym equipment, and he doesn’t go to land very often—but that question has now been answered.  He’s good—fast and with perfect form, moving with all the grace that Nile lacks.  She nearly forgets to keep moving as she watches him go, in awe the entire way.</p><p>He wins the race by a landslide.  Nile isn’t even mad.</p><p>They get out after another few minutes playing around, splashing at each other.  The sun has come out and the day is starting to heat up, and though the wind is cold on her wet skin Nile joins Joe lounging on the deck to air dry.  He managed to dig up a second of his shitty folding beach chairs from another safe house somewhere on the coast of the Netherlands and now they sit side by side, shivering slightly as he tells her stories about how scuba diving was invented.  Apparently in the sixteen hundreds they would use these things called ‘diving bells’, which were basically giant bells that ships would lower down into the water.</p><p>It’s interesting, and Nile notes with a bit of pride that Joe seems so much more at ease around her than he did at the beginning.  By the time he switches to telling her about freediving—diving down on one breath of air—he’s gesticulating wildly, trying to explain to her how to pack air into the lungs safely. </p><p>It’s good.  Nile grins along, watching.  He’s slowly learning how to interact with other people again, his awkward small talk melting into beautiful stories.  They share breakfast and Nile soaks up everything he has to say, basking in the light peeking through the clouds.</p><p>After that they get dressed for the day.  Joe gets the machines in the wheelhouse up and running while Nile fiddles with the CD player, and then, together, they begin another long day of searching.</p><p>Credence Clearwater Revival plays.  Joe hums along, and Nile smiles behind his back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Still the Southern Bight, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The <em>Costante</em> is a good boat.  Joe has poured hours and hours into keeping her up and running at the top of her game, taking loving care of all her parts.  She’s not perfect, but she’s the best that Joe could ask for.</p><p>…That said, he really needs to fix the problem with her wiring before they accidentally short circuit something important.  Like the control panel in the wheelhouse.</p><p>With a sigh, Joe pulls out the schematics from the compartment under the deck and tacks them to the wheelhouse wall, on top of the maps.  He then gets started on pulling off panels and exposing the wiring, following it down from the wheelhouse to the engines as Nile watches on with a frown.</p><p>“What’s with that face?” he asks after a few minutes of this, holding out a wrench for her to take.  He thinks he’s found the issue.  And would you look at that, he even remembered to shut off the breakers before he started this time.</p><p>Nile shifts, taking the tool and tucking it into the utility belt strapped around her waist.  “…Wouldn’t it be better to call someone who knows what they’re doing?” she asks. </p><p>Her voice is hesitant, wary.  They’ve been making good progress on her education and she’s nearly ready to actually dive instead of just hovering right below the surface breathing, but she still has so many questions about how Joe does things the way he does, why, and if he even should.</p><p>It’s a pain, though Joe supposes it’s a necessary one.  Growing pain, he’d call it.  It gives him pause, helps him think critically about his life and the things he does.  He’s even adjusted a few small things, like the food situation, to make them better.  Still…  “Hey, who says I don’t know what I’m doing?” he demands.</p><p>“You told me literally yesterday that you once electrocuted yourself doing this,” Nile says, unimpressed.</p><p>“Yes.  True.  But I’m a grown man—I learn from my mistakes,” he says.  <em>Usually</em>, he doesn’t say.</p><p>It takes the better part of a morning to get the wiring fixed, and then Joe spends some time fiddling with the engines, as well, doing some maintenance that they’re due for.  He returns to the wheelhouse just after lunch, gesturing Nile over.  “I’m going to need you to turn on the engines,” he says.  “I’ll be down below to make sure everything is working right.  Here, you just—”</p><p>He mimes the motions.  Nile nods, waiting for him to get into position.  He calls up to her to start the engines a moment later, watching the machinery downstairs closely and—</p><p>—there it goes!  They’re live, baby!  Joe listens for a moment, poking around to make sure the system isn’t going to fail, before he heads back upstairs.</p><p>He finds Nile where he left her, standing at the wheel of the boat.  She’s examining the control panel, a curious expression on her face, but when she hears him behind her she straightens up, poker face on.</p><p>“You could try it, you know,” Joe says, leaning against the schematics with his arms crossed. </p><p>“What?!  No!  What if I <em>hit</em> something?” she says, aghast.</p><p>Joe rolls his eyes.  Then he ducks down, peering out the front.  “What are you planning to hit, that buoy with the bird on it?  It’s fine.”</p><p>Nile peers out, too.  “What if I accidentally go backwards and hit the dock?” she asks.</p><p>“I’ll only tell you the controls to go forward.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“Nile,” Joe says, dead serious, “if I didn’t trust you with it, I wouldn’t have offered.  You’ve been working hard—it’s time.”</p><p>Nile stares at him for a long moment, as if scrutinizing his sincerity, before she turns back to the front, her hands falling to the wheel.</p><p>“Good,” Joe says.  They’re off a moment later, Nile peeling slowly away from the dock under Joe’s instruction.  He directs her toward the open sea, watching carefully for other ships as they go.</p><p>It’s good.  It’s very good.  And for the first time in a long while, Joe doesn’t feel sick at the idea of spending the next five hundred years searching.</p><p>***</p><p>“You know, Joe, you could use some actual decor in your cabin.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Joe asks.  He’s up on a stool replacing the bulb in one of the searchlights mounted on the wheelhouse, barely paying attention to Nile down below.</p><p>Nile huffs.  “I’m serious.  All your notes are… interesting… but most people would have, like, pictures of their family up on the walls.”</p><p>Joe laughs as he finishes what he’s doing.  Then he glances down at her.  “I do have one thing,” he says, jumping down and landing on the deck.  He gestures for Nile to follow him.</p><p>It’s hidden under one of the linoleum tiles under the bunk, in a minuscule space he carved out years ago.  He pulls it out of the envelope, pausing to look at it for a moment before passing it over.  “Here,” he says.</p><p>Nile looks down at the blurry photograph, a soft expression on her face.  “Is this Andy and Quynh?” she asks.</p><p>Joe nods.  “Booker was on the other side of the dock.  I’d been taking photos of ships and the sea with a disposable camera and managed to catch them.  I never told them I had it.  Don’t tell them, either.”</p><p>“Why?  Are you not supposed to?”</p><p>“Documentation is dangerous,” Joe says, shrugging.  Nile frowns.  “What, you think the American military is the only faction that would kill for the secret of our immortality?  The only people who would use us for their own purposes or dispose of us using any means necessary once they realized that our immortality can’t be gifted to anyone else?  Nah.”</p><p>With a frown, Nile holds the photograph closer.  “Do you miss them?” she asks.</p><p>Joe shifts, looking across the walls of the cabin that Nile is so suspect of.  “Yes… and no,” he says, with a sigh.  “They visit me often enough.  Every few decades they come back, help search for a day or two.  I love to spend time with them, but… they’re needed elsewhere.  They aren’t constant.  Not like me.”</p><p>Nile nods.  “I’ve been meaning to ask.  The <em>Costante</em>… that means something similar, doesn’t it?  In modern Italian?”</p><p>“You’re getting better with languages, huh?” Joe says, partly teasing.  Nile has been complaining about the learning curve for Genoese for a while now, annoyed by how different it is from the smattering of Italian she knows.</p><p>Nile huffs, a smile breaking across her face.  “Look, not all of us can keep six hundred language families straight,” she says.</p><p>Joe snorts.  She’s not too far off, actually.  A thousand years lends a lot of time to learn new languages.  “<em>Costante</em>,” he says, taking the photo back from her, “does mean constant, yes.  Steady, steadfast, and even, too.  Consistent.  It’s like… a rock, unmoving as the sea batters against it.  But there are some ways to translate it that mean closer to true, to faithful.”</p><p>“You are <em>costante</em> for Nicolo,” Nile says, and Joe smiles.</p><p>“I try,” he says, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it once did.  “It is my calling, I think.  To sail the seas in search of my love.  To be his rock, to steady him as the world threatens to dim his light, to put it out.  I couldn’t imagine a world where I did not search when he was lost.”</p><p>They are quiet for a moment after that.  Joe stares out across the little room, a swirl of emotions in his chest as he thinks about them all.  Andy and Quynh, their drive to save the world.  Booker, his problem solving and his humor.  Nile, so young and fresh and vibrant. </p><p>And Nicolo.  His kindness, his heart, his love.  They’re close to finding him, he knows they are. </p><p>Soon… <em>soon</em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29745918">I wrote a little soulmate fic if anyone wants to read it!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Just north of the Strait of Dover, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nile sits on the deck early one morning, her hair dripping down her back as she holds a mug of dark, steaming coffee.  It’s been nearly a month now since she began her journey through immortality on the Costante, and she’s gotten into the habit of drinking Joe’s strong black coffee.  She never liked coffee much in her old life, really, but it reminds her now of how easy life is with Joe—it speaks to his dry humor and poetic words and the expansive stories he tells, rich with detail. </p><p>She’s also gotten into the habit of swimming with Joe every morning, just to stretch her limbs a bit.  It’s a good feeling, hitting the water.  Freeing. </p><p>She needs that some days, when the cabin fever of being trapped on board a boat that is under seventy feet in length with no company but an obsessive thousand-year-old man for long periods of time gets to her.  She likes living with Joe, but she has a feeling that she won’t be able to handle it for years and years on end, not like he does.  She’s going to need to get out eventually.</p><p>In the meantime, she watches a pod of dolphins cresting off in the distance, humming to herself.  Joe, as well as donating his money to the couple in the USA who recover drowning victims, also donates all his sonar images in huge dumps to a marine life preservation society that Nile had never heard of until he brought it up.  They’re on their way to Margate, England now so that he can dock and get a decent internet connection to do so with the last few months worth of scans, scrambled so that their route across the North Sea is at least somewhat obscured. </p><p>He showed her the interactive map on the society’s website, partially filled in with scans that you could zoom in or out on.  The whole map was a patchwork of sonar, and there was a hint of pride in Joe’s voice as he showed her which parts he’d done.  He’s well on his way toward creating a one-man map of the water surrounding England, his devotion clearer than ever as she clicked around.</p><p>“Land ho!” Joe calls a moment later.  “Get in here and guide us, First Mate.”</p><p>Nile squints over at him.  He’s smirking, having slowed the boat to a stop while Nile was lost in thought.  He’s been giving her a crash course in steering, delighting in throwing her into the veritable deep end of boat handling.  With a sigh, Nile takes her coffee into the wheelhouse, handing it to him so he can hold it as she navigates them slowly and carefully to the dock he points out.</p><p>Once there, Nile helps him tie the Costante to a piling and then goes to steal one of Joe’s hats to cover her hair, a pair of sunglasses pulled down over her eyes.  Her dark skin will always stand out in this part of Europe, especially in the land of White People, but there isn’t much she can do about that.  Instead she begins walking, wandering around in the fringes of the city, more at ease now.  It’s been a while since any of the people looking for her have found her, and though she knows she shouldn’t get too complacent, she’s happy to have this chance to enjoy being out and about in the world.</p><p>Later that afternoon they get back to work, heading north up the English coast.  They’re hardly an hour or two in before Joe suddenly grabs Nile by the shoulder, shaking her excitedly where she’s standing at the wheel.</p><p>“What, what is it?” she demands, turning toward the sonar.</p><p>“Not Nicolo,” Joe says, leaning in close to the sonar that he’s been watching, hand still on her shoulder.  “But interesting.  Turn us to starboard and angle toward the east, would you?”</p><p>Nile does, watching closely as a shape centers on the sonar.  It’s massive, she can tell that much—Joe had to zoom out a bit from his normal settings to get it all in view.  The metal detector has started going nuts, and Nile quickly switches it off before it can drill a hole through her head.  She then turns off the engines and helps lower the anchor to halt them so they can take a proper look.</p><p>It’s… a submarine, if she’s not mistaken.  She whistles, staring at the different sonar images as Joe flips between them.  “See that silhouette?” Joe asks, pointing it out.  “That’s a German U-boat from world war two.  Been down there nearly eighty years.”</p><p>Nile stares, reeling slightly at the casual way that Joe says <em>eighty years</em>.  Joe, of course, barely bats an eye at the number.  He’s seen it all already—he was alive and sailing these seas when the U-boats were in action, after all.  What is eighty years to a man who has lived hundreds upon hundreds?</p><p>Nile turns to Joe.  “Hey.  Old man,” she prods.  Joe hums, waiting for her to continue.  “Is it weird to know that you once sailed at the same time as the U-boats were active and now you find them like this?”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s… strange to see everyday things become historical sites,” he says, still focused on the wreck.  “I’ve never really gotten used to it.  But U-boats were notoriously hard to catch even during their time—I think I only glimpsed them in action once or twice, and both times I would have tipped off the Allies.  Historical lesson of the day: Nazis are fucking shit, Nile.”</p><p>Nile nods seriously.  That sounds about right.</p><p>The question arises not long after that—what do they do about the U-boat now that they’ve found it?  It’s likely that no one has spotted this particular wreck before, as it isn’t noted in any of the archaeological sites Joe has shown Nile, the ones he trawls for information and/or signs of Nicolo.  According to international law, all naval wrecks are sovereign immune—they belong to the state they originated from rather than the waters they were found in.  There are still authorities who would need to be told about it, however—governments who protect wrecks like this from looters and grave robbers.</p><p>“People can still use eighty year old rusted metal?” Nile asks, blinking.</p><p>“You bet,” Joe says.  “And there are so many of these wrecks down here that it’s impossible to float and preserve them all.  Most likely they’ll note it, leave it where it is, and hope for the best.”</p><p>“So… what does that mean for us?” Nile asks.</p><p>“It means we can poke around a bit.  What do you think, should we take out the mini-ROV to get a better look?”</p><p>Nile grins.  “Oh <em>hell</em> yes.”</p><p>***</p><p>The mini-ROV, Nile has learned, is a little remote controlled apparatus that can be sent down like a waterborne drone to examine the sea floor.  It looks like a suitcase-sized submarine, and despite the fact that it probably costs more than Nile has earned in her lifetime she’s found that it handles an awful lot like something out of a video game.  She grins as she fiddles with the controls, watching the bubbles stream past on the video feed.</p><p>The mini-ROV—now named Celeste, because what kind of mini-ROV doesn’t have a cute name—descends slowly, her lights aimed toward the bottom.  It takes a few minutes before the U-boat begins to take shape in the gloom, Joe pointing out defining features and commenting on the integrity of the hull.  They spend several long minutes circling around before Joe announces that he’d really like to go down in person to get a better look.</p><p>Nile packs up Celeste as he sits on the deck and suits up, pulling the top half of the wetsuit up and sliding his arms in.  He’s just zipping it up when Nile hardens her resolve.  She swallows, straightens, and heads over to him.</p><p>“What’s up?” he asks.</p><p>“I was just wondering… could I come with you?” Nile asks.</p><p>Joe blinks once.  Then he breaks out into a grin.  “You’re ready?” he asks.</p><p>Nile nods, smiling back.  “Now or never,” she says, and Joe laughs once, sounding delighted.  It’s livelier than she thinks she’s ever heard him.</p><p>Getting into the water with all the equipment is easy now that Nile has done it a couple of times.  She’s never gone deeper than about five meters, but Joe is there the whole time, guiding her down.  She knows the signs now, knows what he means when he gestures with his arms, and she follows him around the wreck in awe as he points out this and that.  Engravings in the side, corroded down to nearly nothing—barnacles and coral growing up around the fins of the craft—places where the metal has grown weak over time.  She watches as shoals of fish drift all around, amazed at how the ocean life has so completely taken the U-boat into its folds.</p><p>It’s beautiful.  And yet… it’s also sad.  This submarine was part of a massive conflict, human beings raging against other human beings for the lives of others still, a great war and a terrible time in history that cost millions their lives.  And as Nile ascends back to the surface, watching Joe the whole way, she wonders not for the first time what kind of state Nicolo is going to be in when they find him.  Will he recognize them?  Nile maybe not, that’s only to be expected, but will he recognize <em>Joe</em>?  What if he <em>doesn</em><em>’t</em>?  How much of the man that Joe once knew has been lost to the sea, corroded and eroded away?</p><p>Nile glances down at the U-boat far below and wonders, a bitter taste in her mouth, how quickly the sparks of life she sees in Joe will be snuffed out if he were to find Nicolo… only for Nicolo to be too far gone to come back. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Northeastern side of the Southern Bight, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nile quickly picks up the <em>Costante's</em> controls, becoming proficient much quicker than Joe did, once upon a time.  By the time they hit the two month mark, Nile has taken to working them in eight hour shifts—eight hours on, eight hours recreation, and eight hours sleep.  She can and has come to shoo Joe off to bed on occasions when he’s tried to sneak in a little more time with the sonar after dinner, channeling every mother who has ever had to corral wayward children for bedtime. </p><p>Joe doesn’t mind much, he’s found—if they offset their shifts they do about as much searching between them as he used to do alone, with the added bonus of both of them getting to sleep in the bunk instead of on the floor.  It’s nice to share the burden with someone sometimes.  And, just as she shares the burden of the search, he shares the burden of her dreams.</p><p>Take tonight, for example.  Joe is on a recreation shift, Nile sleeping in the cabin, when she wakes suddenly.  Joe is there moments later, calling softly to her to ease her out of the panic.  He tries not to act too eager as he pulls out his notebook, scribbling down all the little details that she can give him—about Nicolo, yes, but also about the duration of the dream, how sharply in focus it was, etc etc.  They’ve gotten enough of the dreams to start establishing patterns, to discern what data points mean what.  They’re coming closer and closer at this point, one every night like clockwork, which can only mean one thing—<em>they</em><em>’re closing in on him</em>. </p><p>It’ll be hard to triangulate his exact position with such imperfect means, Joe knows, but for the first time in a long time he feels like they’re actually getting somewhere.  He feels less like he’s sailing blind and more like he has a heading—he’s so <em>close</em> to the fruition of five hundred years of searching.</p><p>The thought has him in an incredibly good mood, the kind of mood that isn’t even dented by Booker complaining about paying up his debts in the weekly packet.  He feels like he’s on top of the world, anxious and hopeful and excited all at once.  It’s a feeling that he hasn’t had in… god, it’s been decades, at least.  Maybe centuries.  Possibly, if Joe were really pressed to think about it, he’d find that he hasn’t felt like this since before Nicolo went under, but he’s not pressed and he doesn’t want to think about it.  He just wants to keep going, slow and steady, until he finds his love again.  Because he’s close, he knows he is—so <em>achingly</em> close, and with Nile by his side it won’t be much longer now.  It can’t.</p><p>Soon, Nicolo will be in Joe’s arms once again.</p><p>***</p><p>“Hey Joe, I have a question,” Nile says, leaning over the railing beside where Joe is hauling up the rope ladder from their morning swim.  She sounds nervous, touching the ends of her braids with unsure fingers. </p><p>“Sure, what is it?” Joe asks.  He’s been floating all morning, vibrating with a momentum that he hasn’t felt in centuries. </p><p>Nile opens her mouth, pauses, and closes it again.  “Do you…” she begins, only to stop once more.  She shakes her head, then, and says, “Why do I keep finding knives everywhere?”</p><p>It isn’t what she wanted to ask, Joe knows that immediately.  He isn’t sure what she wanted to get at, however, and figures it’s best to just answer what she asked and give her some time to work up to her real inquiry.  Besides, the knife question is an easy one to answer—sometimes you just need a knife.</p><p>“But in the bathroom?” Nile asks.</p><p>“Hey, you never know,” Joe says.  “Better to be prepared for anything, right?”</p><p>Nile shakes her head, looking sceptically out at the sea.  “And if you get into a knife fight on the water, what stops you from overbalancing and falling overboard?” she asks.</p><p>Joe laughs, longer and fuller than he has in a while.  “You’ve been sailing for a while now, don’t you have your sea legs yet?”</p><p>“I can walk just fine,” Nile protests, her lips twitching up in a smile.  “I just don’t think the pitch and yaw lends to knife-fighting.”</p><p>“You’d be surprised,” Joe says, and slips out the knife velcroed to the back of the nearer crane.  “Here, let me show you.  It’s about time you learned some new fighting techniques.”</p><p>“I was a marine,” Nile says, rolling her eyes—but she stands back and watches as Joe begins to show her how to use the motion of the boat in her favor as she wields the weapon.  A few minutes later Joe has Nile suited up with a knife of her own, slashing and jabbing with it as the boat rocks.  From there they move on to grappling with knives, and then Joe thinks to pull out his sword from where he keeps it under the bunk in the cabin.  He grins as Nile’s eyes go wide.</p><p>“Is that a scimitar?” she asks, comical.</p><p>Joe laughs again.  “If you want to get technical about it, it’s a <em>saif</em>,” he says.  “’Scimitar’ is kind of a catch-all term for a lot of different blades, and even then the word ‘saber’ works better.”</p><p>Nile nods along, soaking up this new information as Joe works through some exercises with the blade.  Nile is a quick study, picking it up fast, and Joe grins.  They spend a few hours of a recreation block passing the saif back and forth as Joe helps Nile push her sense of balance to the absolute limit.  She’s pretty good already, he wasn’t lying about that, but this is a whole other level, her movements becoming graceful, beautiful, as she twirls and slashes and jabs with a fierce expression on her face. </p><p>It’s good.  It’s so good.  And Joe, as he always does, finds his thoughts drifting toward Nicolo.  He imagines the two of them, Nicolo and Yusuf, working together to teach Nile the different sword fighting techniques they know—and for the first time in a long time Joe doesn’t feel like his heart is being wrenched from his chest to think of such a thing.  Because it’s coming.  A day like that will be here someday so, so soon. </p><p>This is all he needs to know.</p><p>***</p><p>He’s still in a good mood that night when he gets an off-schedule ping from Booker.  He blinks, clicking on it to download.  He waits while the decryption software works on it, humming a little along to the music playing on Nile’s speakers.</p><p>The message is short, once it’s decrypted.  <em>Going deep undercover for a mission.  Not sure how long it will take.  Three months minimum, probably longer.  Expect no communication.</em></p><p>It’s… an odd message, to say the least.  They haven’t had to go deep under in… god, must be decades now.  Not since Quilicura, 1956.  Even then they had a better idea of how long it would take, and briefed Joe fully before they went.</p><p>Of course, a few things have changed since then.  The world itself has transformed, tracking and surveillance technology shooting into the realm of the future—and Joe has Nile, now.  If they thought it would be safer to keep Nile in the dark, then they must be in some serious shit.  He trusts them to get it done, though, however long it takes.</p><p>And maybe, by the end of it, they’ll be able to join them.  All three of them.  Joe, Nile… and Nicolo.</p><p>Joe melts into a smile, eyes on the sonar.  <em>Tomorrow</em>, he thinks.  Tomorrow… yeah.  It’s going to be a <em>good day</em>. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>West of the Norfolk Banks, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nile doesn’t have what you might call a ‘mother’s intuition’.  She had no idea that she’d been about to die, out in the deserts of Afghanistan—that those orders, innocuous as they were, were to be her last.  She’d prepared for it, of course—she’d gone through all the training the marines had to offer, from how to kill to how to survive to how to die with grace and dignity.  Still, the date it actually happened came as a surprise, and even looking back she can’t pinpoint a moment that she knew it was coming.  One second she was okay, and the next she was bleeding out.</p><p>Being on the <em>Costante</em> isn’t like that.  She’s not moving through life ignorant to the possibilities of what might come.  That ship has long since sailed.  She knows now exactly how things can go wrong, how many ways a human can be screwed up irreparably—and not just physically, but mentally. </p><p>She thinks about the trigger under her finger, squeezing shots into a man’s chest, and she feels sick to her stomach.  She knows better now, how easy it is to break a human, and how hard it is to put them back together again afterward.  She knows.</p><p>…This said, she has a very bad feeling about Joe.</p><p>She’s tried to bring it up a couple of times now, but always chickens out at the last moment.  They’ve fallen into a rhythm at this point, and she feels bad rocking the boat, as it were.  For the first time since she met him, Joe seems… happy, almost.  Like he’s actually alive instead of just living, less the ghost of the seas and more an actual living, breathing man, and one that she’s become quite fond of, at that.  She’s afraid of what might happen if she opens her mouth.</p><p>She might be more afraid of the alternative, though.</p><p>She waits until a few days after Booker’s last message before she finally works up the courage to bring it up.  Joe is kipped up in the cabin with a new romance novel from the last stop they made—he glances up when she knocks on the door.</p><p>“I wanted to talk to you,” she says.</p><p>“Sounds serious,” he says, an eyebrow raised.</p><p>“It is.  And I… I want to preface this by saying that I’m only asking because I care,” she says, holding up her hands in a placating gesture.</p><p>Joe slowly sets down his book.  “What is this about?” he asks carefully.</p><p>Nile takes a deep breath.  “It’s just… I wanted to ask what your plans are, Joe.”</p><p>Joe stares at her, something shifting behind his eyes.  “I’m going to find Nicolo,” he says, slow and careful.  “You know that.”</p><p>“You mean… you’re going to search for him.  But for how long?  Do you have any contingencies?” Nile shifts her hands higher, raising her voice when Joe goes to open his mouth.  “Please, Joe, just—tell me that you have a plan for if Nicolo doesn’t make it.  What are you going to do if you never find him?  Or if he’s not okay when you do find him?  What are you going to do if he dies for good before you reach him?”</p><p>And just like that, Joe’s good mood is gone, turning on a dime.  The air in the cabin shifts, the comfortable ease between them melting away like it was never there to begin with.  “He’s alive,” Joe says, and Nile hasn’t known him long but she can confidently say that she’s <em>never</em> heard such coldness before, not in his voice or anyone else’s.  It’s like dropping below the ice of a frigid river, sudden and all-consuming.  “He’s alive and he’s suffering and you expect me to… give up?”</p><p>Nile swallows.  “No.  But even you have to know that—”</p><p>“Know what?” Joe asks sharply.  “Hm?  What do I have to know, Nile?”</p><p>Nile tries not to wince at the condescension in his voice, standing strong before him.  “Joe, this task… it may turn out to be impossible.  You might be superhuman, but you’re not Hercules.  You’re just a man.  I just… all I’m saying is that you shouldn’t have to suffer, too.”</p><p>Joe stands suddenly, his feet braced against the sway of the boat.  His face is hard, the grief of the last five hundred years carved into his skin a hundred times deeper than the faintest of age lines that are etched around his eyes.  The sheer volume of his pain fills the room until Nile can barely breathe around it.  And there, mired right in the thick of it, stands Joe, larger than life, the full force of his gaze piercing Nile through from front to back.</p><p>“He is my all,” he says, and though his voice is even, frozen, Nile can sense a roiling flow of lava somewhere far underneath, bubbling toward the surface and threatening to melt the icy facade he’s pulled on overtop.  “He is my everything.  He is the only thing that matters, the only thing that has <em>ever</em> mattered.  <em>Do not ask me to give up on him</em>.”</p><p>“Joe—” Nile starts, but Joe shakes his head.</p><p>“This was a mistake,” he says.  “Letting you come with me.”</p><p>“Wait, no—”</p><p>“It’s not a bad thing, Nile.”  Joe sighs, and suddenly there is no ice and there is no lava.  There's just stone, plain and gray, where the two collided.  And there, standing at the center, just a man; one who is more exhausted than any man was ever meant to be.  His gaze falls away behind his hand as he scrubs his palm over his face, shrinking down into himself.  “You belong with the others,” he says.  He sounds resigned now.  “You should be learning, growing into your immortality—you should be under Andy and Quynh’s wing, soaking up their knowledge.  You aren’t meant to be chasing after a man who went missing long before you were even born.  Thank you for helping me, but I think this is the end of the line for us.”</p><p>This is exactly what Nile didn’t want.  She protests, tries to reason with him, tries to convince him to come with her, if even just for a little while, but nothing she can think to say changes his mind.  He starts up toward the wheelhouse to take her to shore so he can leave her at one of the safe houses in England until the others can come pick her up.</p><p>Nile bars his way.  “No.  I’m not leaving.  You can’t make me.”</p><p>Joe stares at her for a long moment before his shoulders drop.  “I don’t want you to go, either,” he says.  “But you don’t belong here.”</p><p>“Then at least let me stay until the others are done with their mission!” she says.</p><p>Joe looks past her, his face more tired than she’s seen it in a while.  “Nile…” he says, a warning in his voice.</p><p>“Fine.  Fine, just—one more night,” she says, desperate.  One more night to do anything in her power to change his mind.  Even if she can’t convince him to let her stay longer, she can still keep him company, at least.  For a little bit longer. </p><p>Joe sighs, his eyes closing for a long moment.  He swallows hard, and then says, “Yes.  Fine.  One more night.”</p><p>Nile nods, any words of thanks she might have drying up in her throat.  One more night… she has one more night to help Joe, and then… then there is no more helping him.  He’ll be as lost to the sea as he was the day she first met him.</p><p>…She has to do something.  What, exactly, she has no idea—but it has to be <em>something</em>.  She pauses at the top of the stairs, thinking hard—but the only thing she can think to do is to run the sonar for one last night.  Help him search one last time, in the hopes that she can find something, anything, that will help in his endless mission.</p><p>So she goes up to the wheelhouse and turns on the engines, and the sonar, and the lights.  She sits behind the wheel and canvases the area, zigzagging back and forth, despair making her eyes burn more than saltwater.  She knows she won’t find anything, but she has to attempt, she has to—just—<em>try</em>—</p><p>—for the last sparse hours she has on the <em>Costante</em>—</p><p>—a lump in her throat—</p><p>—and tears threatening to fall down her cheeks—</p><p>—until, just before dawn, she blinks at the sonar and realizes that she has no idea what she’s looking at.</p><p>She blinks harder, sniffling a little.  She’s gotten pretty good at reading the sonar—not as good as Joe, of course, who was around when it was invented, but proficient all the same.  She knows what seaweed looks like, and this is… it’s close, but it’s not quite the same.</p><p>She frowns, switching to a side scan so that she can get a look at the base of it.  The not-seaweed is a little more distinct at this angle, just a single spot of it on an otherwise smooth, sandy bottom dotted here and there with coral.  It’s originating from one particular area, and she can see… something… half buried in the mud at the bottom of the sea-floor.</p><p>Nile stares for a long moment, allowing the boat to come to a stop.  She breathes in, her heart slowly picking up in her chest until it’s pounding behind her ribs.  It… it can’t be.  There’s no way.  She’s reading this wrong.</p><p>But she can’t take that chance.  She swallows, gripping the wheel with both hands, before she darts out of the wheelhouse and down to the cabin.</p><p>Joe is lying in the darkness, his back to the door, when she barges inside.  He’s already awake, she can tell by the way he twitches, but he doesn’t move until she calls his name.</p><p>“Joe… maybe I’m reading the sonar wrong, but… I really think you’re gonna want to take a look at this.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Chelyabinsk, Russia, two days prior.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sebastian le Livre is a hard book to read.  Quynh has known this since she met him.  He’s a good actor, yes, and it’s all but impossible to tell what’s really on his mind, sure, but sometimes she wonders if the fault really lies with the observer.  Perhaps he doesn’t even know what he wants. </p><p>Either way, it makes it very difficult to tell how he’s doing.  Take now, for instance.  He’s sprawled out on the couch of their western Russian safe house, eyes on the staticky TV but gaze too distant to be really watching the game. </p><p>This isn’t unusual.  What’s unusual is that he doesn’t have his computer out as well, halfheartedly searching for info to shove into the weekly packet for Joe.</p><p>Quynh frowns over Andy’s head.  Andy is half-asleep, one hand on the leather grip of her axe and the other on Quynh’s knee.  She knows that Quynh thinks something is up with Booker—she even agreed that he’s been acting a bit strange as of late.  Andy is, however, old enough that she’s mostly unconcerned with what she calls ‘fleeting phases of the personality’.  The youngsters change too fast for her to get concerned at every twist and turn.</p><p>Quynh would generally feel the same—and she does, about many things—but she, unlike Andy, remembers her first thousand years.  She remembers being one of those people suffering from fleeting phases of the personality, and she knows that when you are that person, each change feels a whole lot more important than just something that will come and eventually pass.  It’s like… ah, like being a child.  Children have fits and tantrums and change their minds so quickly, but to the child it’s all very real.  An adult may be able to see that this will not last long in the scope of things, but the little one is immersed—they cannot see the forest for the trees.</p><p>Which is a long way around to say that Quynh is on a mission to figure out exactly what’s on Booker’s mind under the facade. </p><p>Thankfully, she’s one of about three people on this earth who actually has a chance of seeing through it.  She rests her chin on Andy’s shoulder and sets her eyes on Booker, content to wait him out.</p><p>It doesn’t take long.</p><p>“Can I help you?” he asks, refusing to turn and meet her eye.</p><p>Quynh hums.  “Depends.  Would you like to tell me what you’re thinking or do I have to guess?”</p><p>Booker huffs, stretching his legs out a little farther.  He opens his mouth as if to answer, but before he can Andy suddenly jerks upright, dislodging Quynh, her eyes darting toward the front door. </p><p>“Company incoming,” she says, and Quynh has just sprung to her feet in response, Booker’s tension all but forgotten, when suddenly the door is blown inward with a <em>bang</em>.</p><p>Andy, already on the move, takes down the first three men with her axe before they even know what hit them.  Booker yells, scrambling for his gun—Quynh snatches a staff from the corner of the room and enters the fray seconds later, whirling around Andy’s side to clobber a man in the face. </p><p>She’s a split second too late to stop him from firing a gas grenade into the room. </p><p>Things get… <em>messy</em>… after that.  It’s all flailing limbs and swinging weapons, the sound of gunshots ringing through Quynh’s swimming head and the thick, choking fog of gas—chaotic, untenable, and through it all there’s Andy, back and forth and all around, taking down as many of the intruders as humanly possible, Quynh at her side and Booker at her six—</p><p>—except Booker is facing the wrong direction to be watching Andy’s back—</p><p>—and he raises his gun—</p><p>—and before Quynh can move to grab him, to knock him off course, he fires, taking Andy down with a shot to the side.  She screams, an animalistic sound of pain and anger, as her axe clatters to the floor.  She follows quickly after, overcome by the pain and the gas and oh, god, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go, this isn’t how anything is supposed to happen, suddenly everything is so very very <em>wrong</em>—</p><p>The last thing Quynh sees before she succumbs to the gas is Booker allowing himself to be cuffed.</p><p>***</p><p>Quynh comes to on a hard surface, criss-crossing grooves digging into her face as the entire thing jerks back and forth.  She scrunches her nose, willing the sting of the gas in her airways to ease.  It does not.  The taste is bitter enough to make her eyes water.  She huffs, spitting in disgust.</p><p>“Quynh.”</p><p>Andy.  Quynh breathes through her mouth, forcing her elbow under her, dragging both bound hands with it.  The last thing she remembers is Andy falling—and the scream—the shot—Booker—betrayal—choking—<em>fuck</em>—</p><p>“Quynh.”</p><p>More assertive this time.  Leader voice.  Quynh shakes herself, weak limbs shaking as she forces herself up, head hanging.  She can hear a lot of people shifting in an enclosed space, and the sound of an automobile engine hums beneath her.  They must be in a truck, probably surrounded by guards—her, Andy, and—</p><p>She whips her head up, her eyes locking on Booker.  He makes a pathetic figure, sitting hunched up in the far corner.  His arms are wrapped around his knees, wrists zip tied together as he hangs his head, avoiding her gaze.</p><p>“Still want to guess what was on my mind?” he asks, misery overlaying the old joke in his voice.</p><p>“Shut it, all of you,” says one of the guards, prodding him with the barrel of his gun.  “One more peep and you’ll regret it.”</p><p>Booker shuts it, retreating as far as he can in the scant space.  Quynh grinds her teeth together, the muscles of her jaw twitching from the pressure.  That—that—<em>traitor</em>.  How dare he have the audacity to joke around with her!  She’d rip him apart with her bare hands right now if given a chance, and—</p><p>She’s pulled from her thoughts as a boot nudges her elbow.  She glances over at Andy, refocusing with effort.  Andy is sitting up as well, her hands also zip tied—she looks tired even as she quirks her lips up in a smirk.  <em>We</em><em>’re okay</em>, that look says, but Quynh barely sees it, her eyes instead drawn to Andy’s torso.</p><p>There’s blood all down her side.  Too much blood, too fresh, for it to have healed.</p><p>Andy is bleeding.</p><p>Andy is bleeding, and she hasn’t stopped.</p><p>***</p><p>Quynh is reeling.  She’s been reeling for a while, she thinks.  It isn’t exactly a short flight from Chelyabinsk to London, but it seems to pass in the blink of an eye.  There is a distantly familiar man—Copley, Booker calls him—who tends to Andy’s wound.  He’s mostly quiet as he works, but he does speak every so often.  Apologizing, mostly.  Saying stuff about how he doesn’t mean to be so forceful, it’s just that he’s been following them for a long time and he needs them.  It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but then again, nothing does right now.</p><p>Because Andy is bleeding.  Andy is bleeding and she won’t stop.  Andy is—oh, god—</p><p>They meet their true captor when they set down several hours later.  He’s a snot-nosed kid compared to them, accusing Copley of shorting him.  Three immortals, he whines, somewhere off in the distance—three immortals, not two and a half.  He seems the kind of person to delight in hearing himself speak, but Quynh pays no attention—she has eyes only for Andy. </p><p>The little boy-man leaves after a while.  The doctor, meanwhile, has fixed up Andy, stitching her back together.  She’s frowning, drawing trays of instruments toward the beds, when Quynh zeroes in on a scalpel and suddenly the world comes back into focus.</p><p>“Me first,” she says, too sharp and too loud in the silence.  The doctor twitches, glancing over. </p><p>“You’d like to offer samples first?” the doctor asks.</p><p>“Me.  First,” Quynh says, and she knows the other two are looking at her, Andy with understanding and Booker with confusion, but she doesn’t care.  She just—she has to know.  If it’s Andy’s time, then fine.  Fine.  Let the universe take her.  <em>Just so long as Quynh goes too</em>.</p><p>“…Very well,” the doctor says, and steps carefully forward as if expecting an attack.  Quynh does not attack.  She relaxes under the blade of the scalpel, allowing it to cut into her arm, eyes locked on the streak of blood that begins to run down her arm…</p><p>…as it runs…</p><p>…and runs…</p><p>…and runs…</p><p>…and as the doctor frowns she can’t help the hiccuping laugh that bursts from her chest.  She looks over at Andy, at her love, and sees the relief echoed in her beautiful green eyes.  For a moment it’s as if they are far, far away, just the two of them, side by side as they ever are.  There is no space between them, just Andy and just Quynh, together.  Quynh blinks and she feels tears welling in her eyes as she smiles at Andy.</p><p>“I’m coming with you,” she says, and Andy smiles back, wide and glorious, the victorious grin of a warrior. </p><p>“You are,” Andy says.  “We go together.  Just like we always planned, hm?”</p><p>“Together,” Quynh whispers, and there is an understanding between the two of them.  This is an end, and while they are not happy to die, they are happy that they will be together when they go.</p><p>And then, just like that, Booker breaks their moment with a wounded noise.</p><p>“Why is it <em>you</em>?!” he demands in French, his voice thick.  He pulls at the restraints, sudden and violent, wrenching his wrists.  “Why <em>you</em> and not <em>me</em>?”</p><p>“Book—” Andy starts.</p><p>Alas, Booker seems to have hit the breaking point of whatever emotional turmoil he’s been going through.  The doctor jumps as he slams his head back against the bed.  He then does it again, over and over and <em>over</em>, his voice rising as he demands to know why, why, <em>why</em>.  He’s like an animal in a trap, his teeth bared in a rictus of pain and desperation.  When he finds that struggling gets him nowhere he lets out a strangled cry that barely resembles words, a cry that Quynh translates as, “<em>Why must I live as everyone else dies</em>?”</p><p>“Maybe Andy wouldn’t be dying if you hadn’t shot her!” Quynh yells back, also in French, her fury boiling over.  “You made your bed, Booker, now<em> lie in it</em>!”</p><p>“<em>It was supposed to be me</em>!” Booker howls.  He turns toward the two of them suddenly, eyes too wide, desperate and feral as he strains against the restraints.  “Don’t you understand?!  I would give anything to be in your place!  I would do anything for it to be over, all the damned living and dying and living again, god, just <em>please.  Please just let it be over</em>—”</p><p>He gets no farther, as suddenly the doctor is there, a sedative in hand.  She presses the applicator to his neck and hits the button.  In seconds his words begin to slur, French falling away as his eyes slide shut, his body going limp against the bed.  The sudden silence in the room is deafening.</p><p>“Well,” the doctor says, looking vaguely unsettled.  “I suppose we should… get on with our testing now.”</p><p>Quynh groans, letting her head fall back. </p><p>What a <em>fucking</em> day.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>My apologies to all eighteen people who commented on the last chapter, and also to everyone else who is following along.  The cliffhanger is still hanging.  My bad.  :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>The Norfolk Banks, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It takes no time at all before Joe has Celeste ready, lowering her down into the water to get a better look.  The searchlights mounted on the wheelhouse are trained on the spot that she went under, and Joe waits anxiously as Nile navigates the mini-ROV down toward the seafloor.  She angles her downward, turning slowly toward the object and—</p><p>Joe nearly chokes, the breath punched out of him.  It’s covered in barnacles and ocean life, half-buried in the mud, overgrown with coral that wraps around the sides like clawed fingers, but he knows that shape.  He knows it.  And even if he didn’t, the hair… streaming out of the face holes… caught in the currents and swaying back and forth… god, it’s eerie and, more than that, it’s <em>unmistakable</em>. </p><p>“Nile,” Joe says faintly, as Celeste edges around the head of the iron maiden.  “…I’m gonna need you to man the crane.”</p><p>Nile’s back straightens, her military training shining through.  “Yes, sir,” she says, very serious. </p><p>Joe nods.  Then, willing his ears to stop ringing, he takes a deep breath and begins suiting up to dive.</p><p>He’s in the water not ten minutes later, his heart pounding at the back of his throat.  He tries to temper himself, to convince himself that this may not be the one thing he’s been searching for for the last five hundred years.  Because Nicolo may not be there, after all.  If this isn’t <em>the</em> iron maiden but rather <em>an</em> iron maiden… if those bastards sent more than one person to a watery grave and the rest is just an illusion… a hallucination, or a dream…</p><p>Joe swallows.  Then he pushes downward, following the crane’s weighted line down, down, down.</p><p>It takes too long to reach the seafloor.  It’s a bit of a stretch at forty-seven meters—he won’t have long down here.  Half an hour tops before he’ll be forced to surface, and his clock is already ticking.  He keeps pushing, fins driving him quick and sure down toward the bottom. </p><p>The first thing he sees is the hair.  Thin, tangled strands of it drifting through the water.  He navigates around it, pushing farther still until the sand becomes visible in the beams of his headlights.  He drags the chains at the end of the crane’s line with him as he fights his way through the water to the base of the hair, and then, teeth gritted, he begins to dig.</p><p>***</p><p>He only has a few minutes to spare by the time he’s finished and the chains secured, his gloves gritty with mud and sea sludge.  He flicks the on button on the transceiver to tell Nile to start the crane, but the words don’t come, his throat too tight to speak.</p><p>Nile seems to get the message, anyway, as the slack in the line tightens and the iron maiden begins to rise, Joe with it.  Joe clings to the line, imagining the winch winding around and around and around, hauling them up an inch at a time.  Slow… and steady… because even though Joe would prefer to haul ass and get Nicolo to the surface and <em>out of this damn water</em> as soon as possible, the last thing he wants is to give Nicolo the bends on top of drowning over and over.</p><p>Thankfully, Nile is well-trained at this point.  She knows what to do and how to do it.  They stop at the appropriate points for the appropriate amounts of time, the crane working at a slow, even pace.  Thirty meters… fifteen… five… two… and…</p><p>Joe is already shucking his mask as they break the surface, gripping the line tight with his other hand.  The iron groans as it rises from the sea, saltwater pouring out through all the holes and seams and cracks, meters and meters of hair dragging behind it.  Nile comes into view as the iron maiden swings over the side of the boat, and she lowers it gently down onto the deck, the hair caught on the railing.</p><p>Joe is down in seconds, tearing his gloves off with his teeth.  “Bolt-cutters, go—” he manages, shucking the oxygen tank as well.  It rolls across the deck as he begins to yank at the muddy remnants of the ancient chains still wrapped around the beast.  The lock is all but fused to the front with sea life, and he nearly breaks his fingers trying to get it open before a particularly hard wrench rattles it loose with a <em>crack</em>.</p><p>Joe grunts, tossing the lock aside.  Nile is back, holding the bolt-cutters at the ready, but Joe is already working his fingers into the seam at the front. </p><p>It’s easy.  Almost too easy.  The hinges are so eroded at this point that they basically fall apart in his hands, iron coming off in thick flakes.  Joe wrenches the doors off, feeling panic begin to squeeze his chest.  Nicolo should have been able to get out of there.  Even starved and atrophied he should still have had enough strength to break free.  If they didn’t make it in time—if they’re too late—</p><p>Joe makes a soundless noise, tossing the doors aside.  At first all he sees is hair—thick and knotted, ingrown through all the little nooks and crannies in the iron.  Then—oh, lord in heaven above—</p><p>They are.  Too late, that is.  Nile gasps above Joe, the flashlight in her hand beginning to waver as Joe reaches down, hand hovering over Nicolo’s gaunt cheek.  His eyes are open and staring, his chest unmoving, the water still in the bottom of the iron maiden also filling his slack mouth.  He’s a corpse—dead, nude, with hair and beard discolored green and impossibly long, skin gray and wrinkled from the water.  He’s thin, skeletal, and his arms are folded up by his sides to make room for his nails, which are long and curling.  His legs, too, are folded to make room for his toe-nails, that plus his gauntness making him seem impossibly small.  He’s like something inhuman, something dead but something divine—a being caught somewhere between constant death and eternal life. </p><p>Nile, standing over them, breathes in a sharp gasp.  “He—oh, <em>god</em>—” she says, and makes a gagging noise.  Joe, impatient, just gestures for a knife—any knife, <em>any one will do</em>.  The moment she hands one over, hands shaking, he pushes in, one palm curling around Nicolo’s back to slowly lift him free. </p><p>There’s resistance, just as he expects—knotted hair, caught in every seam and hinge and hole.  He holds Nicolo with one hand and, with the knife in the other, begins to quickly hack at the strands, far enough back from Nicolo’s head that if Nicolo were to wake now he wouldn’t hurt himself on the knife.  He cuts—</p><p>—and hacks—</p><p>—and saws—</p><p>—until, after what feels like an eon, Nicolo is finally freed from the chains of his own hair.  Joe wastes no time—he tosses the knife aside and, wrapping both his arms around Nicolo, hauls his love up and out of the iron maiden.</p><p>For as thin as he is, he’s surprisingly heavy.  Dead weight, the additional drag of the remaining waterlogged hair pulling him down.  Joe staggers barely a step before he’s laying him down on the deck, rolling him onto his front.  His hair is splayed across the boards, green like algae, like kelp, like the ocean has taken him into its embrace and isn’t planning to let go even as Joe pushes the water from his lungs, massaging his thin, wrinkled back as thick, silty water pours from his mouth.</p><p>“<em>Come on</em>,” Joe says, low and gentle in Genoese, calling to Nicolo.  “<em>Come on, love.  Come on now.  Come back to me</em>—”</p><p>And there’s nothing.  No sign of healing, no movement.  Not for a long, long moment.  He’s dead.  Dead, gone, snuffed out.</p><p>Until, all at once, his back arches, expelling the water.  More and more and more comes, choking him on the way out, and Joe rides the spasms with him, an arm around his waist, holding him up.  Joe laughs aloud, relief and a joy too light to swallow down bursting from his chest.  He holds Nicolo as he coughs up the sea, and he laughs, and he waits for him to wake properly.</p><p>It happens a moment later, green eyes flying open with a gasp.  Nicolo, the love of Joe’s life, the light that guides him in darkness and the fire that warms him in cold, pulls in his first true breath of air in five hundred years.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I HAVE CHANGED THE CHAPTER COUNT FOR THE LAST TIME, I SWEAR.  I just realized suddenly that I forgot one very important scene and had to fix it, haha.</p><p>Also... you have no idea how much math I did for this chapter.  So... much... math...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>THREE THINGS.</p><p>1) I threw together an SS playlist if anyone wants to hear it.  I'm taking song suggestions if you have any, haha.  https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6fJxiUqPMwIvk3z6Ko10yl?si=0ca81bec6f40449a</p><p>2) If you want to see a quick drawing of Nicky in the iron maiden, here you go: https://a-ghost-named-k.tumblr.com/post/640903060850393088/a-quick-drawing-of-nicky-in-saltwater-sonata</p><p>3) JESUS CHRIST thank you for all the comments!!  I thrive on them all, haha.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Still the Norfolk Banks, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nile feels like she’s hardly breathing herself as she waits for any sign of life from the limp, gray body sprawled on the deck of the <em>Costante</em>.  Joe is trembling slightly, one hand bracing himself on the boards and the other pressed to Nicolo’s back, pushing the water from his lungs.  He doesn’t look back at Nile, doesn’t falter and certainly doesn’t pause in his ministrations.  His gaze is locked on Nicolo, fierce and expectant but also a little uncertain as the seconds pass by with no movement.</p><p>When Nicolo comes to life, Nile feels her knees go boneless.  She sinks down to the deck beside Joe, watching as Joe <em>lights up</em> in a way she’s never seen before.  Even as Nicolo violently hacks up a lungful of water Joe grins and laughs, his eyes wet and shining under the bright searchlights.</p><p>It takes a moment before Nicolo can take his first breath, his eyes opening for the first time.  Joe gently rolls him onto his back, drawing Nicolo’s hands up to his chest to give his nails room, his shaky, tear-filled smile wider than ever.  He speaks in Genoese—something to the effect of <em>I knew I would find you, love</em>—and strokes Nicolo’s long, uneven hair back from his face.</p><p>It takes a moment for Nicolo to focus, his eyes distant, cloudy.  Nile leans in, waiting to see if he’ll speak—but he doesn’t, and after a moment his eyes slip closed again in a slow blink.  When he opens them again they seem to have lost any clarity they might have had, roving slowly around.  Joe says something else, too quick for Nile to catch, and leans in closer—but Nicolo does not meet his gaze again.  Instead his eyes land on Nile, leaning over him behind Joe’s shoulder.  He stares at her for a long moment before his eyes close once more.</p><p>They do not open again this time.  Instead he opens his mouth, salt-cracked lips parting slowly, and speaks in a slow, ponderous tongue, voice so hoarse from the salt and the disuse that Nile can hardly hear him let alone understand. </p><p>Joe hears him.  Joe understands.</p><p>By the way Joe’s face falls and twists, it wasn’t good.</p><p>“<em>Nicolo</em>,” Joe says, and he sounds a little choked up now, like he’s desperately trying not to cry.  He strokes his hand down Nicolo’s face, petting his hair back.  “<em>Darling, my darling, my Nicolo, I am here</em>.”</p><p>There is no response.  Not even a twitch.</p><p>“What did he say?” Nile demands, leaning in closer.</p><p>Joe, distracted, takes a moment to respond.  Nile has to prod him again before he finally answers, saying, “He said that he’s dreaming.” </p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh, no.</p><p>Nile leans back as Joe hunches down over Nicolo, both hands touching every inch of Nicolo’s skin that he can reach.  “Destati, Nicolo, <em>destati</em>—” he says, his voice cracking, Genoese turning to Italian turning to Arabic as he begs for Nicolo to wake.  In between the words he wraps his arms around Nicolo’s thin chest and begins to press desperate kisses to Nicolo’s face, cheeks and nose and lips, until a sob wracks through him and he’s forced to stop, his entire body shaking with the force of it.  Through it all Nicolo doesn’t stir, listless in Joe’s arms—all the way up until Nile can’t stand it anymore and clambers to her feet, knees weak, to go fetch some towels.</p><p>Joe does not leave, holding Nicolo like a drowning man might hold a life saver, sobs wrenching through him as he calls and calls for Nicolo to wake.</p><p>***</p><p>By the time Nile comes back, six towels and a thick blanket in hand, Joe has calmed somewhat.  His eyes are puffy and red as he takes the towels one by one, patting Nicolo dry.  Nicolo’s hair is a mess, uneven and still so damn long—Nile kneels down to wrap it in the last towel.</p><p>She’s barely touched him when Joe jerks, a feral sound echoing from deep in his chest—not quite a word but not quite not, either.</p><p>Joe blinks, seemingly as surprised with himself as Nile is.  “I…” he starts, his voice ragged.</p><p>“It’s okay.  We’ll take it slow,” Nile says, and hands the towel over.  She takes the wet ones back, bundling them up in her arms.</p><p>Joe finishes a moment later, and wraps Nicolo up in the blanket before sliding his arms underneath him and lifting him in a princess carry.  Nile hurries to open the door for him—it’ll be a hassle to get Nicolo down to the cabin, but the chill of the night is too close for comfort up on deck, and they’ll need to get some food into him, anyway.  Nile stands at the ready, hands out to catch Nicolo should Joe stumble.</p><p>They make it without incident, and Joe sets Nicolo down on the unmade bunk.  Joe straightens up, standing beside him.</p><p>Nile pauses in the doorway, waiting for instructions on what to do next.  She knows the general gist of what needs to happen—they need to get food into him, clean him up, warm him up, and let him sleep—but Joe said before that the specifics would depend on what kind of state Nicolo was in when they found him.</p><p>Well, they found him.  And he’s in a state.  But Joe, rather than telling Nile what to do, has frozen where he stands, staring down at Nicolo’s slack face.</p><p>This is <em>exactly</em> what Nile was afraid of.</p><p>“Joe?” she says.  Then a little louder, “Joe.”</p><p>Joe blinks, coming out of it.  “I—” he starts, shaking himself.  “Yes, what is it?”</p><p>“Should I get some broth?” Nile asks.</p><p>“Yes, we should—yes.  And some water.  And also some nail clippers.  We need to…”</p><p>He trails off, gesturing at Nicolo’s long, discolored nails.  Nile nods.  She goes to leave, pauses, then comes around to Joe’s side.  She reaches out to him, telegraphing the motion until her hand rests on his shoulder.  “It’ll be okay,” she says, with a confidence that she doesn’t feel.  “Some warm food and a little nap and he’ll come right out of it.  Right?”</p><p>Joe scrubs a hand down his face.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Maybe.  We’ll… we’ll try.”</p><p>Nile nods, and then backs out of the room.</p><p>She comes back a little while later with a bottle of water, a warm thermos of chicken broth, and, as requested, some nail clippers that she found in the minuscule bathroom.  She finds Joe kneeling beside Nicolo with a hand on his chest, a funny expression on his face.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Nile asks, setting the thermos down carefully on the floor.</p><p>“He’s breathing weird,” Joe says, by way of explanation, frown deepening.</p><p>“Does he have water in his lungs still?” Nile asks. </p><p>Joe shakes his head.  “It’s not that.  He’s just… here, feel this.”</p><p>He moves out of the way, gesturing for Nile to take his place.  Nile watches him carefully as she rests her hand on Nicolo’s chest—but he seems to have dealt with whatever came over him the last time she tried to get to close to Nicolo, allowing her to touch. </p><p>Nile hums, focusing on the movement under her hands.  Or… the lack thereof.  Nicolo’s chest is still, as if he’s not breathing—she looks frantically up at Joe and is about to open her mouth when suddenly Nicolo breathes out and pulls in another large breath.  He doesn’t breathe again, holding it.</p><p>“Oh,” Nile says.  “He was… he was doing that in the water.  Every time he woke up he’d hold his breath for as long as he could before breathing in the water.”</p><p>Joe’s face twists once again.  “He really thinks he’s still down there,” he says, voice thready.  He sounds like he’s half a second from breaking down all over again.</p><p>Nile stands, thrusting the thermos into his hand and nailing him with a <em>look</em>.  “Yes.  He does.  So now we have to prove to him that he’s not.  Can you do that, Joe?”</p><p>Joe takes a deep breath, swallows, and nods.  “I can do that,” he says, and kneels down once more.</p><p>They sit Nicolo upright for feeding, his hands limp in his lap and his nails hanging over the edge of the bed.  Nile watches on for a moment as Joe carefully opens Nicolo’s jaws, tipping water into his mouth.  Nicolo’s eyes are partly open now, little slivers of white and green visible, not focused on anything in particular.  He swallows as if on instinct when Joe closes his mouth.</p><p>“We’re okay,” Joe says, giving him a little more water before starting with the broth.  “You should get to work on his nails.”</p><p>Nile nods, bending down over Nicolo’s skeleton thin hands.</p><p>She finishes with his nails, both hands and feet, before Joe is halfway done with the thermos of broth.  She makes a face as she cuts down the feet and feet of nail growth to shove it into a trash bag—of all the things she didn’t ever expect to have to do, cutting five hundred years worth of nail off someone is… pretty high up the list.  Or, well… maybe not a full five hundred years worth.  Some of it must have broken off in the iron maiden, when it grew long enough to hit the bottom, weakened by the salt water. </p><p>…She endeavors not to think about that.</p><p>Joe sets the thermoss aside when there’s still a little left in it, stroking Nicolo’s hair once more.  Nile waits for him to lay Nicolo back down, but he doesn’t, just humming a low tune.</p><p>“Uh… shouldn’t we try and clean him off now?” Nile asks.</p><p>Joe shakes his head.  “The food might make him sick.  Just… give him a little time before you go moving him around.”</p><p>“Right,” Nile says.  She fetches another trash bag just to be safe.  Joe, meanwhile, stays exactly where he is, kneeling at Nicolo’s side and watching his face diligently. </p><p>It happens almost without warning.  One moment Nicolo is resting, looking for all the world like a man taking a nap in the sun, and then he goes somehow paler than before, his mouth opening.  Joe hurriedly leans him forward over his knees, and Nile pushes the bag under his chin just as a watery slurry of chicken broth and water runs out of his mouth.  He hardly makes a sound as it comes, shuddering silently, his hands limp by his sides. </p><p>Joe handles it very well, even as Nile winces.  He just keeps hold of Nicolo, propping him upright with one hand and holding his long, damp hair back with the other.  He murmurs in Genoese the entire time, a string of apologies and <em>you</em><em>’re doing so good sweetheart</em> and <em>we knew the first meal was going to be the hardest, hm</em>?</p><p>“Is he going to keep throwing up when you feed him?” Nile asks, as Nicolo stills again.  She hands Joe a napkin to wipe his beard off.  “How will he gain weight back if he can’t keep anything down?”</p><p>Joe hums, stroking Nicolo’s face, his shoulder, his arm, his back, anything he can reach.  “At least a little bit should have made it into his system already.  That will be enough to kick-start his metabolism.  We heal fast—he’ll be able to keep down broth soon, and then we’ll move on to something more substantial.”</p><p>Nile nods.  Then she stands and heads into the bathroom for a pair of washcloths and a bucket of warm, soapy water.</p><p>Nicolo is lying down on his side when she comes back, Joe still rubbing his back as if he can’t—or won’t—stop touching him.  The poor guy must be tired—five hundred years of drowning followed by eating for the first time in centuries followed by throwing up everything he’s eaten sounds <em>exhausting</em>, honestly.  And yet, as Nile kneels beside Joe, she finds Nicolo’s eyes open, not quite tracking her but still looking in her general direction.</p><p>“<em>Hey there</em>,” she says, her Genoese still rough and choppy.  He blinks, slow and ponderous.  It’s not a response, exactly, but Nile chooses to take it as one as she wrings out one of the washcloths and begins to wash the salt from his hand, working her way up his arm.  Joe follows suit, starting at his face and working down his neck.  Nicolo doesn’t speak as they wash him, doesn’t move voluntarily, barely opens his eyes—he seems to have no reaction to anything they do, to anything that happens in front of him.</p><p>Nile bites her lip, thinking.  Then she sits up on her heels and says, “Joe, do you have a hair brush in the bathroom?”</p><p>Joe nods, glancing over at her.  “You’ll be gentle?” he says, and the sleepless night plus the excitement of finding Nicolo and the subsequent crash when Nicolo went unresponsive all seem to be getting to him, too, his movements flagging.  His voice is soft, pleading—as if he doesn’t know what he’d do or how to handle it if she said no.</p><p>Nile, taking pity on him, only nods.  “Of course,” she says, and goes to fetch the brush.  She settles on the floor, waiting until Joe has turned Nicolo over on his other side to face the wall before she begins pulling the brush through his tangled hair, working her way up from the ends to the roots.  It’s nasty and knotted, and it takes a lot of work to get through the tangles without yanking too hard, but she manages it eventually.  Then, as Joe carefully trims his beard to a more manageable length, she begins separating the strands into sections.</p><p>The braid Nicolo has when she’s finished is hardly her best work, but it’s much better than the mess he had before.  His breath is slower now, the exhales softer, as she sits back—it’s hard to tell but she thinks he’s dropped off into actual sleep now, his eyes all the way closed.</p><p>“<em>Sleep, tesoro</em>,” Joe says, pressing a kiss to his prominent cheekbone.  Then he turns to Nile.  “In the meantime, we need to get to shore.”</p><p>“Do you want me to—?”  Nile gestures up toward the wheelhouse.</p><p>“No, it’s okay.  You missed your sleep shift—I can handle it.”</p><p>Nile waits a moment.  He doesn’t move, instead staring down at Nicolo as if the very idea of parting with him now is a foreign concept. </p><p>Nile sighs.  “How about this,” she says.  “Why don’t we <em>all</em> rest a little first, and then next shift I can take us to shore?”</p><p>“…Okay,” Joe whispers.  “Yeah, okay.  He needs the bunk, is it okay if—?”  He gestures down at the floor.</p><p>“Of course!  I don’t mind,” Nile says, pulling down an extra blanket for a makeshift pillow.  “Nicolo gets the bunk, and you and I can sleep on the floor.  We’ll have ourselves a real sleepover.”</p><p>Joe nods, still not moving.  Nile has finished spreading out blankets on the floor, brushed her teeth, changed, and crawled into her makeshift bed by the time he so much as twitches, finally pulling back from Nicolo’s still form.  He changes quickly and then settles on his side beside her, facing the bunk, and she already knows he’s not going to sleep well, if at all.  She’s hardly going to be any better, she can tell, especially as the sun comes up over the horizon.</p><p>Still, she has to try.  She has to keep up her energy.  She has to stay strong—for Nicolo, yes, but especially for Joe.  Because here, now, lying on the floor of the cabin on a tugboat in the middle of the North Sea, she has a feeling that it’s going to take <em>everything she</em><em>’s got</em> to keep Joe from running himself right into the ground.</p><p>The battle has barely just begun.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>…Still the Norfolk Banks, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Joe doesn’t sleep so much as he dozes, so close to the surface that at every change in the air, every time Nile shifts or the boat dips a little lower than usual, he wakes.  The first time it happens, barely a few minutes later, he listens for Nicolo’s breath in the dim light of the cabin—and shoots upright when he doesn’t hear it.  He fumbles for the bunk, resting his fingers on Nicolo’s neck and trying to calm his own harsh breathing so he can focus.</p><p>He feels it a moment later.  A steady <em>thump thump</em> under his touch.  Nicolo’s heart, beating strong in his chest.  Joe lets out a wheeze of relief, slumping back onto his blankets as the gut-wrenching fear retreats back down into hiding.</p><p>By the third time it happens, Nile is waking with him every time, jostled as he scrambles for the bunk.  She’s staring at the ceiling when he manages to calm himself for the third time, a dead-eyed glare that would probably kill if it were aimed at a person.</p><p>“Sorry,” Joe whispers, huddling down into his blankets. </p><p>Nile grunts.  “It’s fine,” she says, sounding distinctly not fine.  Then she props herself up on her elbow to check the time.  “It’s been about two hours since the broth, should we try again?”</p><p>Joe sits up, as well, kneeling beside Nicolo and stroking his hair.  “…I don’t want to waste his energy,” he says.  “But he needs sustenance.  Water, at the very least.  Would you…?”</p><p>Nile nods, getting up.  Joe nudges Nicolo, trying to determine if he’s awake—it’s nearly impossible to tell.  It feels… strange.  To be unable to read him.  Before the iron maiden, Joe and Nicolo were closer than brothers—closer than lovers, even.  There wasn’t a twitch of Nicolo’s lips that Joe didn’t know.  But now…</p><p>“You’ll get better, love,” Joe whispers, pressing his lips to Nicolo’s limp hand.  Then he slides an arm under Nicolo’s shoulders, lifting him into a sitting position.</p><p>For the second time around, Joe gives Nicolo a little more water and then waits a bit to see what happens.  When it doesn’t come back up he sets to feeding Nicolo broth.  He went slow the first time but he goes even slower now, just giving him a cup or so before stopping.  He wonders what’s going on under Nicolo’s listless facade—he hopes that Nicolo isn’t in pain, but that may be a bit much to ask after everything.  Starvation is one of the worst ways to die, not least of all because you’re still starving when you wake.  Refeeding is a nightmare.</p><p>It takes a bit longer this time before Nicolo gets sick, and he only throws up a little, more drool than anything.  It hurts to watch, even though Joe knows Nicolo is getting better, his accelerated healing kicking in now that he has something in his system.  Slow progress is still progress, after all.</p><p>That doesn’t mean that Joe has to like it.</p><p>He sighs.  Then he lays Nicolo back down, facing out toward the rest of the room this time, and pulls his blanket up to his chin.  He watches for a moment before turning to get into his own bed.</p><p>“Oh, no.  You’re not coming back down here with me,” Nile says, pointing a finger at his chest.</p><p>Joe frowns.  “I’m not leaving him—”</p><p>“I never said you should.  Just… lay <em>with</em> him, you idiot.”</p><p>Joe opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and… okay yeah, that would make a lot more sense.  If he lays with Nicolo he’ll be able to feel his heartbeat, feel every breath as it comes.  He won’t get so freaked out with the need to check and make sure that Nicolo is still alive, that he hasn’t succumbed in his sleep.</p><p>“You’re a genius,” he tells Nile.  She only huffs, watching as he crawls carefully into the bed and over Nicolo, settling down at his back.  There’s hardly enough room for two full grown men, even considering Nicolo’s current state, but Joe makes do, throwing his arm over Nicolo’s waist.  Then he waits, knowing even as he does that he won’t get the easy affection that was once their norm.  Because it used to be that when they’d sleep like this, Nicolo would press his hand on top of Joe’s, holding it in place.  Now he doesn’t even twitch, lying too still, so thin and completely listless in Joe’s arms.</p><p>Joe swallows down a lump in his throat, and focuses on what he <em>can</em> feel rather than what he <em>can</em><em>’t</em>.  The first thing he notes is that Nicolo is cold, his body clearly having a hard time keeping warm after so much time in the frigid depths and so much weight lost.  Joe huddles closer, allowing his own body heat to warm him.  Nicolo doesn’t react, doesn’t move, but his breathing is slowly starting to settle into an easier rhythm, the space between each breath growing less and less.  Joe swallows again, and hesitates just a moment before he gently noses against the back of Nicolo’s neck.  He breathes in.</p><p>It’s almost overwhelming, that small whiff of Nicolo.  He smells like the sea, but he also smells like <em>Nicolo</em>, like the man that Joe lost so long ago, the memory of his scent burned into Joe’s memory.  And his pulse… his beautiful pulse… it’s so incredibly, amazingly strong when Joe turns his head, pressing his ear to Nicolo’s back.  If there was any doubt before that Nicolo is a survivor, it is swept away by the steady sound of his heart beating in his chest.</p><p>“<em>I love you</em>,” Joe whispers, his ear pressed to Nicolo’s back and his arm wrapped around Nicolo’s waist like a lifeline.  “<em>I missed you so</em><em>… so much</em>.”</p><p>Nicolo doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to—just having him, holding him, is enough to ease Joe down into sleep.</p><p>***</p><p>Joe wakes some time later to the feeling of wetness.  He groans, twitching—and then comes awake all at once, sitting up on his elbow with his hand on Nicolo’s side.</p><p>“Oh, habibi…” he says, when he realizes what’s happened.</p><p>“Wh’zup?” Nile asks from the floor, rolling over with a groan.</p><p>Joe pushes himself all the way up into a sit, wincing.  “He wet the bed,” he says.  Nicolo doesn’t move, but his eyes are open now, at a sort of half-mast and focused on nothing in particular.</p><p>“Oh,” Nile says, sitting up as well.  “But that’s… that’s kind of good, isn’t it?  It means he’s rehydrating, right?”</p><p>“It does,” Joe says, and carefully climbs over Nicolo.  He takes Nicolo by the hand and begins to ease him up.  “I have some fresh sheets in the bin under the bunk, do you mind—?”</p><p>“Already on it,” Nile says, head and shoulders disappearing underneath the bed.  She reappears a moment later, swapping the sheets with military efficiency as Joe carries a nude Nicolo into the bathroom. </p><p>He sets him down on the toilet, kneeling in front of him and holding his face in his hands.  “<em>I know you think you</em><em>’re dreaming</em>,” he says, “<em>but I would much appreciate not waking with wet blankets.  If you have to go, please do it now</em>.”</p><p>He’s not sure what he expects, but either Nicolo can’t hear him or he doesn’t have to go, because nothing happens.  Joe sighs.  Then he fumbles around for a washcloth, working on getting both himself and Nicolo cleaned up.</p><p>Nile is waiting when he carries Nicolo back into the cabin.  “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to dress him,” she says, gesturing to a pile of Joe’s clothing beside her. </p><p>Joe debates the pros and cons for a moment.  The warmth clothing will provide versus having to clean it if there’s another mess… hm. </p><p>“…Yeah, let’s do that,” he decides.  Warmth first, cleaning if necessary.  That’s a plan.</p><p>Nicolo doesn’t help as the two of them struggle to get a shirt and then a sweater over his head, but neither does he really hinder them.  It’s like dressing a rather large doll, if Joe is being honest.  They finish up with a pair of sweatpants and some socks, and then go for Nicolo versus broth round three.  This time, thankfully, Nicolo keeps it all down.  Nile breaks into a wide grin when Joe announces that he thinks they’re in the clear, and raises her hand for a high five—Joe slaps his hand into hers, the relief palpable.  Nicolo will be back to full health—physically at least—in no time at all.</p><p>It’s then that Joe realizes: in all the excitement, he didn’t think to call the others.  For so long he’s had this moment planned out—the steps to take to start Nicolo healing and determine if he would need an actual hospital, which ports to get to depending on where he was on the sea, how he would contact the others even if they were deep in a mission.  Five hundred years he’s planned for this, and <em>still</em> somehow it’s taken him by surprise.  All the centuries of preparation and all of it went right out the window when he laid eyes on his love once more.</p><p>Andy, Quynh… they need to know.  They’ll want to be here for this.  And he and Nile still need to get to shore—Nicolo needs to be as far away from his torment as he can possibly get.  Maybe, once they’re on solid ground, Joe will see if they can find a doctor who can be paid to keep their mouth shut—one who can tell them how to bring Nicolo, <em>his</em> Nicolo, back from wherever he’s hiding.</p><p>“I’ll deal with all of that,” Nile says when he brings it up, biting his lip at the thought of letting Nicolo out of his sight.</p><p>“Are you sure?” he asks, still hesitant.</p><p>Nile nods, reaching over to give him a light punch to the arm.  “I’ve got this.  You just take care of your man,” she says.</p><p>Joe nods, too, reaching out to Nicolo.  He presses his palm to Nicolo’s gaunt cheek, brushing his fingers down his face, just because he can. </p><p>He’s probably imagining it, but he thinks he feels Nicolo lean into the touch ever so slightly.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter 30</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>STILL the Norfolk Banks, North Sea, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nile leaves Joe sitting with Nicolo, the two of them side by side on the bunk in the cabin.  Joe only has eyes for Nicolo—even as he recites the number Nile should call to reach the others he’s looking at his love, and Nile catches a glimpse of the man Joe must have been before, so <em>so</em> long ago. </p><p>It hurts, Nile finds.  She finally understands just how badly Joe was damaged when Nicolo was thrown into the sea and lost to them.  He was lost, himself, that day.  He was <em>broken</em>.  The wounds in his heart were fresh and bleeding for five hundred years, and though he now has a chance to begin healing, it’s going to be a long, hard road. </p><p><em>It</em><em>’ll be easier once we’re with the others</em>, Nile thinks, ducking into the wheelhouse.  She takes a moment to breathe, glancing through the front window at the deck.  The remains of the iron maiden and all of Joe’s diving gear are still out there—she’ll have to clean some of that up before they head off.  She has no idea what to do with the Rapunzel hair still splayed all across the deck and trailing down into the water.  She’ll have to ask.</p><p>First things first.  Nile reaches up and pulls down the satellite phone, punching in the number Joe gave her.  She waits as the call connects.  It rings once… twice… three times…</p><p>Nile chews on the inside of her cheek.  Why aren’t they picking up?  It should reach the others even deep undercover, according to Joe.  It’s the highest emergency number they have—the <em>we found him</em> number. </p><p>Still, the phone rings.  Five, six, seven—they should have picked up by now.  Maybe they have the phone on silent?  But no, this number wouldn’t be silenced, if Joe is to be believed. </p><p>…They must be too deep undercover to answer.  Booker did say they’d be out of contact for a while.  She’ll try again in a few minutes.</p><p>Nile sighs.  Then she heads back down to the cabin to ask what the heck to do about the mess on the deck.</p><p>She hears Joe’s voice before she reaches the doorway, and for a wild moment she thinks they’re having a conversation—but no, it’s just Joe, speaking in a low voice.  She frowns, leaning a little closer.  She shouldn’t listen in, she knows she shouldn’t, but she can’t help it—it’s not like she’s good enough at Genoese to really understand, anyway, right? </p><p>“—<em>wanted to say I</em><em>’m sorry</em>,” Joe is saying, when she sneaks up to the doorway, pausing just out of sight.  He sounds a little muffled, like he’s facing away from her—she peeks around the corner and spies him on his knees in front of Nicolo, holding his pale hands in both his own.  He leans down to press a kiss to Nicolo’s knuckles.  “<em>I didn</em><em>’t mean for it to take so long.  You were never meant to be down there at all, let alone for so many years, I</em>…”</p><p>He swallows, and says something that Nile doesn’t quite catch.  Though she can’t understand the words, the pain behind them is clear as day.  As she watches, his back bends, his forehead coming to rest on Nicolo’s knees.  He presses his face there, and then, to Nile’s immense discomfort, he begins to cry, soft little sounds that are too loud in the quiet of the ship. </p><p>“<em>Please</em>…” he says, and his voice is thick and raw now.  “<em>Please, love.  I</em><em>’m here.  I’m here.  You’re safe.  Come back to me—</em>”</p><p>Nile winces.  In another universe, one where Nicolo wasn’t catatonic and Joe wasn’t broken, she’d be wary of walking in on the two of them alone in case she saw something she wasn’t meant to see.  She’s walked in on fellow marines having sex, and it gets real old real fast.  This, on the other hand… it’s unpleasant, but in an entirely different way.  Joe’s voice was just so gentle… and so <em>desperate</em>…</p><p>Nile swallows.  That’s enough eavesdropping for the day.  She slowly backs away again, trying not to disturb them as she slips back up to the wheelhouse, head ducked low as she clutches the cross at her throat. </p><p>***</p><p>In the end, Nile winds up calling the others three more times, in between pulling all the hair up onto the deck and hacking it up to shove it into heavy-duty garbage bags that she throws in the storage space under the deck.  Still no one answers, and she frowns, thinking, as she eyes the iron maiden.  It’s hefty, still mostly intact—it takes a while but she methodically takes it apart, finding the weak points in the iron and breaking it down with the help of the industrial bolt cutters.  She stows that away, as well, before she raises the anchor and starts navigating them to Great Yarmouth, England, and the private dock Joe said she’d find there. </p><p>It takes a while, six hours or so.  She hears Joe banging around in the kitchen at once point, which must mean he’s preparing another meal for Nicolo—he doesn’t come up to check in with her so she assumes that everything is still okay.  She finds the dock without too much trouble and ties them off on her own before heading back down to the cabin to announce their arrival.</p><p>By the time she gets back to Joe, he’s back in the bunk with Nicolo, propped up on an elbow with his other hand stroking Nicolo’s back.  He glances up when Nile enters—he has the look of someone who is torn between denial and mourning.</p><p>“Still no luck?” Nile asks, keeping her voice low.</p><p>Joe just shakes his head.</p><p>Nile shifts, crossing her arms.  “I don’t suppose you’ve tried giving him a slap?  You know, to knock him out of it?  Shellshock?” she asks.  She’s half joking and half not, a miserable attempt to break the thick atmosphere in the room, but judging by the unamused look she gets from Joe it didn’t land in the slightest.  His eyes linger on her, daring her to come over and try it.</p><p>Nile raises her hands in the air, a placating gesture as she backs off a little.  “It was just a question,” she says.  “Anyway, we’re here.”</p><p>Joe glares for a second longer before he glances down at Nicolo, nodding.  “Right.  We should get him off the boat and onto land.  When will the others arrive?”</p><p>Nile shifts on her feet.  “…About that.  I don’t think they’re coming.”</p><p>“What?” Joe asks, sharp.</p><p>Nile swallows.  “I tried them four times.  They never answered.”</p><p>“They…?”  Joe trails off, staring at her as if she’s speaking in tongues.  “You used the number I told you to?”</p><p>“I did,” Nile says, and recites it just to make sure.  Joe gapes, his hand falling still on Nicolo’s back.  “Is there some reason they wouldn’t answer?” Nile asks.</p><p>“Only one that I can think of,” Joe says, and begins to climb over Nicolo.  “Stay with him,” he orders, sweeping out of the room. </p><p>It’s the first time that he’s gone more than five feet from Nicolo since they found him.  Something must be really wrong on the other end of the line if he’s willingly put Nile in charge of his love.  Nile listens as Joe clambers up the stairs before turning to Nicolo himself. </p><p>He’s the same as ever, his eyes slitted and staring at some distant point.  His hollow cheeks are still shadowed by beard, and his braid is starting to come apart a little, the fly-aways resting across his nose.  He doesn’t seem to care as Nile settles on the edge of the bunk, carefully stroking them back into place.</p><p>“<em>How are you doing</em>?” Nile asks, in her best Genoese.  “<em>Are you feeling any better</em>?”</p><p>She waits a moment, to give him time to respond if he’s going to.  He doesn’t, but she doesn’t mind—she just hums, now reaching down to rearrange his arms into a more comfortable position.  His wrists are painfully thin in the sleeves of the sweater he’s wearing.</p><p>“<em>It</em><em>’ll be okay</em>,” she says next, voice low and soothing.  She repeats it a few times, resting her hand on his shoulder so she can feel the rhythm of his breathing.  It’s more or less normal now, thankfully—there’s still the occasional pause, but overall he seems to be adjusting to the surface at least a little bit. </p><p>She hums again, a few notes of a lullaby that her mom used to sing to her.  She’s just reached the second verse when Joe appears again, looking a little too wild in the eyes for the news to be good.</p><p>“What is it?” Nile asks, sitting up straight.</p><p>Joe doesn’t answer.  Instead he throws himself to the floor, digging under the bunk with fervor.  When he pulls back, it’s with his <em>saif</em> in hand. </p><p>“<em>Joe</em>,” Nile says, catching his attention.  “What <em>happened</em>?”</p><p>This time he answers, his hands shaking as he grasps the sword.  “The others,” he says.  “They’ve been captured.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Chapter 31</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Merrick Laboratories; London, England; one day post-capture.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The situation with the lab, Copley, Merrick, the doctor… all of it has gotten out of hand.  Booker isn’t generally the kind of guy who lets that happen, but right now he’s not feeling particularly like himself and… he’s just… well, he’s fucked it all up.  He will openly admit that. </p><p>He thinks, as he lies strapped to the bed with a probe poking around at his liver, that it was always going to go this way.  There isn’t a reality that exists where this hair-brained plan didn’t go to fuck.  He was just… too blind to see the consequences of his actions.  Well, all but one.  There was one consequence that he thought would make all the rest worth it.  If they could just find out how to kill him, if he could die for good, then… well, nothing else would matter, now would it?  Except Andy is mortal, Quynh is mortal, and even now that they know that Lykon wasn’t just a <em>fluke</em> Booker is still hale and healthy and alive, no end in sight.</p><p>At least he doesn’t dream while he’s sedated.  It’s the only scrap of comfort that he has to his name at this point. </p><p>Unfortunately for him, he’s not sedated now.  He grits his teeth, trying to breathe as the probe digs a little deeper.  The doctor angles it a little, and there’s a sharper pain, before it exits his body.  The doctor runs her fingers over the spot, watching clinically as it heals again.  She’s long since stopped asking questions—he doesn’t answer, and she seems to find more use in extracting her samples in silence.</p><p>It’s almost as unbearable as Quynh’s stare, boring into the side of his head. </p><p>The day goes on like that.  Samples upon samples upon samples go into their designated containers, until Booker is drooping from the sustained energy output of constantly healing.  It’s better him than Andy and Quynh, though.  Better he suffer than anyone else, right? </p><p>He breathes out, staring at the foam panels of the ceiling.  Yeah… he’s well and truly fucked this one up.</p><p>***</p><p>The doctor tires of samples some time later.  Booker isn’t sure exactly how long it’s been—there are no clocks that he can see.  He’s flagging, his thoughts sticky and slow as the doctor begins preparing a syringe. </p><p>“I have been told that this will not kill you,” she says.  Then she pauses, and amends, “At least not permanently.”</p><p>Booker sighs.  “Worth a shot though, am I right?” he says, his voice scratchy.  He’d kill for his flask right now.</p><p>Looking thoroughly unamused, the doctor pokes the needle into the crook of his arm and injects him. </p><p>He dies.  And, a moment later, comes back.  Because of course he does.</p><p>He closes his eyes as the doctor mutters something about the EKG he’s attached to.  So he’s tired, sue him.  He’s just resting his eyes before the next round.</p><p>He doesn’t mean to drift off.  Really, he doesn’t.  It’s been a long twenty-four hours, however, and his body has had just about enough of him.  He’s out before he realizes he’s out.</p><p>The dream starts almost the very instant he hits R.E.M.  It’s hard to make anything out—the world is distant, nothing quite in focus.  He feels… a blanket, he thinks.  Wrapped around him.  He tastes warm broth in his mouth.  He feels… god, stomach cramps, ow.  Stomach cramps and nausea, building and building and building in his chest.</p><p>And that’s it.  He wakes with a gag, twisting violently in the restraints as his stomach heaves.  Except… it’s not his stomach.  It’s Nicolo’s.  Nicolo, who is not really processing anything that’s going on around him—Nicolo, who feels like he’s locked in a box in his mind rather than the literal box that has housed him for five hundred years.  He’s distant and hurting, but wherever he is… warm and bundled up and so, so sick… he’s not at the bottom of the ocean.</p><p>No.  <em>No</em>.  Booker shakes himself, wrenching his mind away from that conclusion.  Nicolo isn’t out.  He’s <em>not</em>.  Not now, when Andy and Quynh are trapped in this lab with Booker, unable to get to Joe and Nile and Nicolo.  Booker is just—he’s hallucinating that he’s dreaming.  It must be a side effect of whatever the doctor dosed him up with.</p><p>“You good, there, Book?” Quynh asks, sounding bored.</p><p>Booker takes a deep breath, contemplating a moment before spitting on the floor.  “Fine,” he mutters.</p><p>“You know,” Quynh says, brushing past his response as if she was uninterested in the answer to her own question, “I have a question for you.”</p><p>Booker glances over at the doctor, who has looked up from her microscope to watch them.  “…Sure,” he says.</p><p>“Why would you choose to betray us in the way that you did?  Explain in as much detail as you can.”</p><p>…So this is how they’re gonna do it.  Booker sighs.  Then, his mouth dry and his hands itching for his flask, he begins to speak.  The words are like curdled milk on his tongue, and he spits them out with a resignation borne of someone who sees no way out—how it was only a loose idea at first, and not anything close to betrayal.  Just this… idea of submitting himself to medical testing to see if a mortal doctor could figure out what made him tick.  It stayed in the back of his mind for a long time—decades, really.  He probably never would have acted on it.</p><p>Until the day that James Copley came to him.</p><p>He knew it was a set-up immediately.  The info of the ‘kidnapping’ was too clean-cut, too neat.  He called the man out on it, intending to figure out how much he knew before seeing if he needed to put a bullet in his head.  But as Copley talked about what he’d seen, what he’d put together, their gifts… that idea came back. </p><p>Copley wanted samples.  Booker could get him samples.</p><p>Or so he thought.  When Andy and Quynh vetoed the mission, he felt… lost.  Like the rug had been pulled out from underneath him.  His only shot at getting out, getting free, and it was adrift in the wind.</p><p>And then Copley asked if he’d be willing to offer samples in person. </p><p>And that was it.  The seed that was planted began to grow and grow and grow, tangling vines ensnarling him.  Because that was the moment it became real—because of course Copley’s buyer wouldn’t be satisfied with one specimen.  Of course giving away their position wouldn't result in just one capture.  Of course they’d need Andy and Quynh, too—and of course Booker would have to give them up if he wanted this to happen.</p><p>And he did.  He wanted it so bad it ached. </p><p>Booker speaks, and speaks, and speaks, the words pouring out of him now.  Far to his left Quynh taps her fingers against her bed, one-two-three-four, the only outward sign of her agitation as the story comes to a climax at the night of their capture.  How scared he was that Andy would manage to kill all their captors before they could be taken, how he just needed something, one <em>little</em> thing, to turn the tide in their favor.  A bullet to the side, he thought—just enough for the gas to take her down.</p><p>“I see,” Quynh says, as the guilt chokes him, the words finally faltering.  She sounds just as unmoved now as she did earlier, as if she’s listening to someone reading the newspaper in a monotone.</p><p>The frustration in Booker’s belly ignites.</p><p>“Do you?” he asks, his voice rough.  “Do you see?  Do you <em>really</em>?”</p><p>“I see that you are suffering,” she says, plainly.  “And that you see fit to share that suffering with others who don’t deserve it.”</p><p>“What do you know about who does and doesn’t deserve to suffer?” Booker spits.  “In fact—what would you know about the weight of this world at all?  You and Andy are destined, you—”</p><p>“You know, I don’t believe I’m paying you to listen to stories, as… <em>touching</em> as they may be,” says a snide voice, cutting him off.  Booker looks up to find Merrick standing beside the doctor, a cup of coffee in his hand and a sneer on his face.</p><p>Booker sighs, the tension bleeding out of his body.  He doesn’t know why he tries.  Quynh, Andy… they have walked this earth alone, but it’s been so long for them since that they’ve all but forgotten what it was like.  But Booker… Joe… Nicolo… they know.  They all know the true scope of the suffering wrought by their ‘gift’.  Booker has seen Joe’s pain, he’s seen Nicolo’s torment—there is nothing good that comes from immortality. </p><p>Except maybe this.  If he can finally give his gift to the world, as Copley thinks he can… and in return, an end to his suffering.</p><p>…Quynh is right about one thing, however.  She and Andy don’t deserve to be here with him, especially now that they’re mortal.  That is one hard line that has been crossed. </p><p>Booker swallows, glancing over at Quynh for just a moment before he turns his eyes to Merrick.  “Please,” he says, his voice hoarse.  “Let the others go.  They are of no use to you without their immortality.”</p><p>Merrick hums, as if thinking about it.  Then he shakes his head, taking a sip of his drink.  “No, don’t think I will.  They do have a use, you see—we have to find out why the immortality is gone now, after all.”</p><p>Booker begins to protest, to plead, to argue—whatever it’ll take to get Merrick to listen.  Before he can, however, Merrick turns on his heel, commanding the doctor to get back to work.  He stalks out before Booker can put up a protest.</p><p>Booker groans, letting his head fall back against his pillow.  <em>Why</em> does he always have to fuck everything up?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Chapter 32</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Great Yarmouth, England, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The plan, or at least the closest approximation of a plan they have right now, is to go to Russia, find the last safe house that the others used, and scour it for clues as to their current whereabouts.  There are, in no particular order, three major flaws to this plan:</p><p>One: Nicolo cannot come with them in his current state.</p><p>Two: Nile cannot go on her own, and…</p><p>Three: Joe will not leave Nicolo.</p><p>As far as situations go, this one is… well, it’s bad.  The last time any of them were captured, for real and not just as a ruse to get information, Nicolo was left at the bottom of the sea for five hundred years. </p><p>Joe winces away from the thought like he’d touched a hot stove top, pacing up and down the scant space of the cabin.  Step step, turn—step step, turn—step step, turn.  Nile watches from where she’s still sitting with Nicolo, her eyes huge in her face.  She’s waiting for him to come up with something more solid, but all he can think about is the fact that Nile is so young, she shouldn’t have to go on her own—but Nicolo is so vulnerable, he can’t be left alone—and he thinks about them, the two of them, and how he can keep them both safe—and he’s coming up empty—because he’s the protector, he’s supposed to keep them <em>safe</em>—but he can’t do that and help the others—and he can still hear Nicolo’s voice in his head saying that he <em>needs</em> to help the others—he needs to save his family—and as the thoughts collide in his head his heart is splitting in his chest—and he can’t—he just can’t—</p><p>“Joe,” says a voice, cutting through the fuzzy panic that has latched onto him.  He looks up, realizing as he does that his fingers are gripping his hair.  He forces his hands down, flexing them slightly as Nile watches on, still waiting.</p><p>“…I don’t know what to do,” he admits, his voice wavering slightly.  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this—the others were supposed to stay safe.  They were supposed to be okay.  They were supposed to be here when he…”</p><p>He chokes on the words, the fear and panic and anger clawing up his throat like something alive.  Anything could be happening to the others right now—torture, torment, god, <em>anything</em>. </p><p>“<em>Joe</em>,” Nile says again, more forcefully this time.  She’s standing now, feet planted in front of him.  She meets his eyes, her gaze strong, determined.  “If Nicolo were awake, could we go to Russia together?”</p><p>“I—he’d still need to rest, I wouldn’t—”</p><p>“Joe.  Answer the question.  Would we go to Russia if Nicolo were awake?”</p><p>Joe swallows, running a hand down his face.  “…Yes,” he says.  “Yes, we’d go to Russia.”</p><p>Nile nods.  “Then we just have to wake him up,” she says, as if it’s that simple, as if it’s as easy as just <em>waking him up</em>.  Nicolo is convinced he’s dreaming, convinced that the world around him is nothing but an illusion, and he’s refusing to acknowledge it despite being well entrenched in it.  Honestly, for as kind and beautiful as he is, Nicolo has one major flaw—that he’s a <em>stubborn fucking bastard</em>.  If he doesn’t want to wake, then no force on earth can make him.</p><p>Nile, though… Nile has <em>also</em> proven to be a stubborn bastard.  If there’s one person on this earth who might be able to reach Nicolo wherever he is now, it’s Nile <em>fucking</em> Freeman.</p><p>Their future rests in her hands.</p><p>***</p><p>“Okay.  I think we’re ready.”</p><p>Joe looks up from Nicolo’s still form, meeting Nile’s eyes.  “You have everything you need?” he asks.</p><p>“Yes,” she says.  Then she pauses, thinking.  “Actually no, wait.  I just had an idea.  You got anything mint-flavored in here?”</p><p>“Uh…”  Joe frowns, thinking hard.  Mint, mint… oh, he’s got it!  He snaps his fingers, standing up to go dig around in the kitchen.  “Aha!” he says a moment later, wielding a couple of candy canes from the holidays last year.  Or maybe the year before.  Two years ago?  Can’t be more than three years. </p><p>…Point is, he’s got mint. </p><p>Nile frowns, taking them.  “…It’ll have to do,” she decides, sighing a little.  Then she gestures for Joe to grab Nicolo.</p><p>He does, hefting him up into his arms.  He’s still so light, so thin—he needs time to recover, to acclimatize to regular life again.  Unfortunately, however, time is the one thing that they just don’t have right now.  They need this to work.  They <em>need</em> him to wake.</p><p>It’s a warm day outside when Joe makes it up the steps and out onto the deck, still an hour or two off from sunset.  Nicolo looks frighteningly pale in the full light of day, his eyes half-open—Joe angles him so his face is at least a little shadowed. </p><p>“Here, this way,” Nile says, and leads him across the gangplank and the dock.  She then begins to walk down the path leading away from the sea, only stopping once they reach a clearing far enough away that they can’t hear the lap of the water against the beach.  She’s set up a little picnic-esque spot here, right in the middle, a scattering of seemingly random objects spread out on a blanket. </p><p>Joe follows her to it, setting Nicolo gently down where she points.  He settles down beside him, propping him up as Nile instructs.</p><p>“Is this okay?” he asks, uncertain, as Nile goes to fiddle with something behind him.</p><p>“It’s perfect,” Nile says, distracted.  A moment later music begins to play—something modern that Joe doesn’t recognize.  It’s upbeat and has fast vocals—she turns it up until it’s slightly above background noise.</p><p>“Okay,” she says, coming back around to their front.  She settles down cross-legged in front of Nicolo.  “I, uh… stole the bottle of cologne from the cabin.  I hope that’s okay.”</p><p>Joe nods helplessly.  He has no idea what she’s doing, honestly.  All he knows is that she has a plan, and whatever it is he’s along for the ride.</p><p>Nile smiles, leaning down until she’s in Nicolo’s sight.  “<em>Hi, Nicolo</em>,” she says.  “<em>I</em><em>’m going to</em>… <em>uh</em>…”</p><p>She makes a dabbing motion with her fingers.  Joe provides the word in Genoese.</p><p>“<em>Right!  Yes, I</em><em>’m going to dab this on you, okay</em>?”</p><p>Nicolo doesn’t respond, but Nile doesn’t seem to mind, fiddling with the cologne.  She gets it open a moment later, and, with careful fingers, dabs some onto Nicolo’s beard.  She then caps it again, wiping her hands off on her pants before she reaches for the candy canes.</p><p>“Okay,” she says in English.  “That’s sight, sound, and smell.  Next is taste—can you open his mouth, Joe?”</p><p>Joe, a sudden realization flooding through him, does as she asks.  She’s smart, this one—she’s making it as different from the monotony of the bottom of the sea as it’s possible to get, methodically working through each of Nicolo’s senses.  First sight—<em>the sunlight, the sky, the trees and plant-life around them</em>—and then sound—<em>the distance from the sea, the music</em>—and then smell—<em>the cologne</em>—and now taste, mint.  Joe watches closely as she places a piece of candy cane on Nicolo’s tongue, gently closing his mouth. </p><p>There’s a twitch, after a moment.  Not much, just a pull of one of the muscles in his cheek, but it’s something.</p><p><em>It</em><em>’s something</em>.</p><p>Joe smothers his gasp, turning his head to look at Nile.  She’s sharing the same excited look that he has, her smile growing.  “This is good,” Joe whispers.  “What else do you have?”</p><p>“Touch,” Nile says, and gently takes one of Nicolo’s hands.  She begins to massage it, gently working the thin muscles.  After a moment she gestures for Joe to take the other.</p><p>Joe does, gentle but firm.  As he works, Nile begins to speak in Genoese, slow and halting as Joe fills in the words she doesn’t know.  Telling him to focus on the feeling of their hands on his, the gentle breeze, the music—everything, going on and on, listing every small thing.  And Nicolo… god, Joe knows he can hear her, knows that he’s listening, because after a long moment he twitches again, his fingers beginning to tremble in Joe’s grasp.</p><p>Nile grins, doubling down.  “<em>Nicolo, I know you feel the warmth of the sunlight on your skin.  I know you can feel the press of my hands.  I know you can taste the mint on your tongue.  You can hear my voice, Nicolo—it</em><em>’s right here, I’m speaking right to you.  This isn’t a dream, Nicolo.  This is real.  Don’t you feel it?  Don’t you taste it?  Hasn’t this dream gone on too long to really be a dream</em>?”</p><p>By the time she’s finished, Nicolo’s eyes have closed.  But not just closed—they are squeezed shut, as if he’s fighting the words, fighting against the truths Nile speaks.  His breath is coming faster and faster, his fingers flexing.</p><p>Still, relentless, Nile continues.  “<em>You need to wake, Nicolo</em>,” she says, and presses her hands to his cheeks, drawing his face up to hers.  “<em>I need you to open your eyes and LOOK AT ME</em>.”</p><p>Joe stares, transfixed, as Nicolo’s face screws up tighter, his jaw clenching so hard that Joe hears the candy cane crushed between his teeth.  Tears have begun to drip down his face, slow and then faster, faster, as he seems to choke on the air in his chest, fighting it.  Joe has stopped massaging, just clutching Nicolo’s hand in his as Nicolo shudders against him.</p><p>“<em>Look at me</em>,” Nile says again, and wipes away the tears with her thumbs.  Her eyes, too, are shining—Joe is no better, having succumbed to tears just moments after Nicolo’s began to fall.  “<em>Nicolo—open your eyes</em>.”</p><p>He doesn’t.  Instead, finally, <em>finally</em>, after so long spent silent and listless, Nicolo speaks.  His voice is thin, broken, shaking—but it’s there, the words whispered like a confession. </p><p>“<em>I can</em><em>’t</em>,” he says, and Joe bites back a sound made of equal parts soaring elation and sinking fear.  “<em>I couldn</em><em>’t… I won’t survive if the dream ends.  I can’t go back to the water.  Please</em>…”</p><p>Nile’s voice shakes as she lowers her hand to link her fingers with his.  “<em>You won</em><em>’t go back.  I promise you this.  You will never go back there again—I won’t let you</em>.”</p><p>“<em>I</em><em>’m out</em>?” Nicolo asks, so small.</p><p>“<em>Yes, Nicolo.  You</em><em>’re out</em>,” Nile says.  “<em>Now please—please open your eyes</em>.”</p><p>And Nicolo’s face relaxes…</p><p>…and his breath evens out…</p><p>…and his fingers close, one hand wrapped around Nile’s and one around Joe’s…</p><p>…and then, like the sun cresting the horizon, slow and steady, his eyes open, green irises brilliant in the late afternoon light.  He focuses on Nile, gaze locked on her, truly seeing her for the first time since he rose from the frigid depths.</p><p>It’s beautiful.  Joe can’t help it—he sobs, reaching up to take Nicolo’s face in his palm.  This time there’s no denying it—Nicolo leans into the touch, his eyes moving to meet Joe’s gaze. </p><p>“<em>Yusuf</em>…” he says.  And then, just like that, he <em>breaks</em>.  Joe sees it, sees all of it—five hundred years worth of pain, and fear, and resolve all coming to the surface, a tsunami crashing against the shore.  The emptiness shatters all at once as Nicolo howls, a wounded noise, and throws himself at Joe.  Joe is ready—he doesn’t second guess, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even <em>think</em>.  He just catches him, drawing him close. </p><p>They hold each other, Nicolo’s thin fingers twisted in Joe’s shirt and Joe’s hand cradling the back of Nicolo’s neck, the two of them rocking slowly back and forth as Nicolo sobs and sobs and sobs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Chapter 33</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Great Yarmouth, England, modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Judging by the way that Nicolo is shaking in Joe’s arms, Nile expects him to pretty much cry himself to sleep, the onslaught of emotion draining what little energy he has.  What happens instead is that he cries for about five minutes and then, somehow, pulls all the splintered pieces of himself together and gets himself back under control.  She has no idea how he does it, honestly—all she knows is that Joe is looking at him like he’s finally seeing the sun break through centuries upon centuries worth of clouds.</p><p>Nicolo says something in Genoese, something to the effect of <em>the others are in trouble, we need to help</em>.  His voice is shaky but determined, his thin hands coming up to grip Joe’s wrists.  In response, Joe grins so wide that Nile fears for his face. </p><p>“<em>There you are, love</em>,” he says, and palms the tears from Nicolo’s cheeks.  His own face is wet but he pays no mind, simply tending to Nicolo with single-minded joy.  He then leans forward, pressing one desperate kiss to Nicolo’s lips.  Nicolo presses right back, the two of them locked together, inseparable, for one infinite second.  Then Nicolo pulls back, the corner of his lip quirking upward.</p><p>“<em>Let</em><em>’s go, yes</em>?” he says.</p><p>Joe laughs, nodding, and goes to help Nicolo stand.  “<em>Yes, yes, we</em><em>’re going</em>,” he says.  “<em>I</em><em>’ll teach you how to use a modern gun on the way</em>.”</p><p>And Nile… she’s never met Nicolo before in her life, knows nothing about him except what Joe has told her and scraps from the numbness of her dreams of him, but from Joe’s reaction she can tell that this is <em>Nicolo</em>, the Nicolo that was lost five hundred years ago.  He’s back, and he’s made up his mind.</p><p>It’s time to go find their family.</p><p>***</p><p>“<em>Okay.  So</em>,” Joe says, speaking slow and carefully in Genoese so both Nile and Nicolo can understand.  “<em>We will travel through the air to the safe house in Russia.  It</em><em>’s going to be a lot, so—why are you making that face</em>?”</p><p>Nile glances from Joe to Nicolo.  Nicolo isn’t making a face, as far as she can tell—he just looks vaguely thoughtful.  Joe apparently sees something she doesn’t, however, because he frowns, gesturing at Nicolo.</p><p>Nicolo hums, and asks a question that Nile can’t parse.  She glances between him and Joe, confused, as Joe’s mouth drops open.</p><p>“What did he say?” she asks after a moment.</p><p>Joe huffs, shaking his head.  “He asked if Russia is the place with the big metal tube,” he says.</p><p>Nicolo says something else, repeating a bit of what he said before.</p><p>“…The big metal tube with the wings,” Joe corrects, frowning.  Then:  “Wait, can you understand English?”</p><p>Nicolo see-saws a hand.  “I… make meanings.  In my head.  From the words I hear in my dreams,” he says, slow, clearly less comfortable with the English than he was with his native tongue.  His accent is like nothing Nile has ever heard before, thick and lilting.</p><p>Joe and Nile stare.  Nicolo blinks back.  Then he says, “I am better for French, I think.”</p><p>At that Joe bursts into delighted laughter, taking Nicolo by the shoulders and shaking him slightly.  “You dream of Booker,” he says.  “You—you can help us find them.  Come here, come here, just—<em>sit down and tell me everything you</em><em>’ve seen</em>.”</p><p>And so Nicolo does, sitting on the blanket and speaking in Genoese, making shapes with his hands as Joe scribbles down every little detail.  Eventually he mentions a man, a frown line appearing between his brows as he tries to remember—and then he gasps.  “<em>Copley</em>,” he says.  “<em>Booker called him Copley</em>.”</p><p>“Copley?  You’re sure?” Joe asks, searching his face.  Nicolo nods.</p><p>“Who is Copley?” Nile asks, frowning between them.</p><p>Joe hums.  “If I’m remembering correctly, the others did a job with him in Surabaya eight years ago.  Hang on—let me see if I still have the background check Booker sent on him.”</p><p>Nile waits until Joe has sprinted off to the <em>Costante</em> in search of the correct one of Booker’s packets before she approaches Nicolo.  “<em>Are you</em><em>… well enough for this</em>?” she asks, touching a hand to his thin chest.  His ribs are prominent under her fingers.</p><p>She doesn’t expect Nicolo to take her hand, still so used to him being listless and unresponsive to her touch, but that’s exactly what he does.  He holds it in his, tilting his head to the side.  “I am… like a baby horse,” he says, and his lip quirks up in a smile.  “I walk in no time.”</p><p>Nile considers him.  “Yeah… I can see that,” she says.  She pauses, biting her lip for a moment before she works up the courage to say, "So all that time… under the water… you were watching?"</p><p>"It comes and goes," Nicolo says, waving a hand dismissively.  Then he pierces her with a stare, his hooded eyes peering down into her soul.  "I would like to thank you," he says.  "For staying with my Yusuf."</p><p>Nile allows a small smile to rise on her lips, rubbing his arm with her free hand.  "It was the least I could do.  Now, how about we get you some food before we head off?  Keep your strength up?”</p><p>Nicolo pulls back with a slight wince.  “Ah.  I don’t…”</p><p>“What is it?” Nile asks, concerned.</p><p>“…Hurts,” Nicolo says, and presses a hand to his stomach.  “I think you say… cramps?”</p><p>“Oh.  God, I’m—I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—”</p><p>But Nicolo is shaking his head.  “Good, hurt,” he says.  “It hurts to heal.”  He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his eye ruefully, squinting at her.  “I would like food, yes.”</p><p>“…Are you sure?” Nile asks, uncertain.</p><p>But Nicolo nods, and won’t take no for an answer.  Nile, resigned, sighs and begins to walk him slowly back to the <em>Costante</em>.  She tells him to wait on the dock while she goes to make something, but the moment she steps up onto the gangplank she hears him behind her, following. </p><p>“But—the water,” she says, worried, raising her hands.</p><p>“I am dry,” he responds, and quirks his mouth in another of those barely there smiles.</p><p>And so he is.  Nile nods, leading him onto the boat and down into the galley.  By the time Joe finds them, he’s sitting at the table with some soup, this time with a couple of vegetables floating around in it, stoically eating.  His hands are a little unsteady with the spoon, but Nile thinks he’s doing rather well, considering, so she leaves it be.  Besides, it’s very much worth it to see how he lights up when Joe arrives, the spoon all but dropping. </p><p>“Yusuf,” he says, and holds out his hand.</p><p>Joe takes it, sliding into the chair beside him.  “Hello, love,” Joe says, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.  “How are you doing?”</p><p>“Good, good,” Nicolo says, and starts eating again.  He doesn’t mention the cramps to Joe, instead choosing to focus on his food.  Joe, meanwhile, focuses on him, his expression inexplicably fond.  He doesn’t elaborate on what he found.</p><p>Nile sighs.  “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks, cutting to the chase.</p><p>“Right.  Yeah,” Joe says, shaking himself.  “According to the info Booker had, James Copley has a home in London.  It’s close enough to drive to.  Just under three hours.  It’s our best lead, I think.”</p><p>“And so we just…?” Nile gestures vaguely.</p><p>Joe pulls his mouth into a grim smile.  “We do.  And I’ll make you a deal—if you drive, I’ll show Nicolo how to shoot,” he says.</p><p>Nile nods.  Sounds like a plan to her.</p><p>***</p><p>The drive is, all things considered, actually very soothing.  Nicolo picks up modern weapons very quickly, slow hands methodically taking out and putting back the magazine in the backseat as Joe talks him through it.  For the remaining two hours he leans against Joe, his eyes closed, as Joe gives him a crash course in what to expect in a modern building.  The sights, sounds, smells… Nile worries for a moment that they’re overwhelming him, that he’ll retreat back into his head again, but he doesn’t.  He just hums to let Joe know he’s still listening, his long, messy braid trailing over his shoulder. </p><p>“Here, tesoro,” Joe says, when they’re almost there.  “Let me fix that.”</p><p>Nile glances in the rear-view mirror, watching as Joe slowly undoes the braid, redoing it so that it’s tight and neat and less likely to snag in a fight.  It’s a tender moment, and Nile gets a little choked up at the thought that this is the first time in five hundred years that Nicolo has felt his lover’s hands in his hair.  She spends the rest of the drive staring pointedly at the road, daring her eyes to start tearing up.</p><p>And then… all at once… they’re there.  Nile pulls up where Joe directs her, hiding the car out in the foliage on the far side of the fence.  Joe hops out at once, guiding Nicolo out as well before he pops the trunk open and begins to divvy out weapons.  A gun for Nicolo, a gun for himself, a knife and two guns for Nile… he pulls out his <em>saif</em> second to last, sliding it into the loop at his belt.  Then he leans in once more, and pulls out…</p><p>It’s a sword.  A beautiful one, with a straight blade and a hilt wrapped in leather.  She has no idea where he kept it on the <em>Costante</em>, but it’s in pristine condition, despite its apparent age.</p><p>“Do you think you can still handle this?” Joe asks, hefting it up for Nicolo.</p><p>Nicolo’s face does something complicated, little twitches that Nile can’t quite read.  She looks over at Joe to see what’s up, but Joe doesn’t glance at her.  He just watches Nicolo, waiting patiently and holding the sword steady, until Nicolo reaches forward to grasp it.</p><p>“Okay,” Joe says, pausing only a moment to help Nicolo strap the sword to his waist.  Then he straightens up, a glint of steel in his eyes.  “Let’s go get our family back.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Will get to responding to comments a little later, my lovelies.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Chapter 34</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>James Copley</em>
  <em>’s house; London, England; modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>They get inside without a hitch, which Joe finds odd considering that they’re dealing with a former CIA agent.  The security system goes down in literal seconds despite the fact that Joe hasn’t had a chance to practice his breaking and entering skills in a good long while.  It’s like the guy isn’t even trying to protect himself.</p><p>They find out why a moment later.  The house… it’s a mess.  Furniture pushed aside, books open on every available surface, walls covered in notes.  It isn’t entirely unlike Joe’s own cabin on the <em>Costante</em>, in all honesty—the only difference is the penmanship and the crisscrossing lines of yarn strung all across the walls.  Joe walks past the first room, gun cocked, before he quickly doubles back, approaching one of the walls.  That’s… that’s Booker.  The photo is indistinct, grainy, but Booker is clear as day, circled in red ink.  Joe glances around—there he is again.  And there’s Andy, and one of Quynh—as Joe looks he finds more and more pictures of the people he loves, the ones who are missing.  Andy, Quynh, Booker… it’s a shrine dedicated to them, their missions over the last fifty… a hundred… two hundred years.  More, even, as Joe spots a passage in ancient Greek.</p><p>He shakes himself, focusing back on his own mission.  He needs to find this guy, to figure out what he’s done with the others.  He’s clearly unstable—this is the work of someone obsessed, someone who has dedicated their entire life and more to a singular cause.  Trust him, Joe would know.  He double checks that Nicolo and Nile are still on his tail before he begins to ascend the large staircase in the middle of the house. </p><p>They hear him before they see him, off in one of the rooms on the second floor.  Joe rounds the corner slowly, gun raised, until he’s in sight—a black man with disheveled hair, facing away from them.  He’s muttering in German, hunched over a newspaper that is open and spread across the floor.  He has a pair of scissors in his hand, but no other weapons in sight—he doesn’t notice them until Joe clears his throat, and then he spins around, dropping the scissors.</p><p>It takes him a moment, eyes huge, before he speaks.  “You…” the man, Copley, says.  “You’re the—the ghost sailor.”</p><p>“Yeah.  I am,” Joe says, stepping closer, gun raised.  “Though I don’t think a ghost could put a bullet in your head.”</p><p>Copley swallows, slowly putting his hands in the air.  He glances over Joe’s shoulder at Nile, and then at Nicolo, eyes sharp.  “You found him,” he says, simple.</p><p>“What?  What the hell does that mean?” Joe asks.</p><p>“He was missing, wasn’t he?”</p><p>Joe gapes.  “<em>How do you know that</em>?”</p><p>Copley stares at Joe for a long moment.  Then his right hand raises further, pointing slowly at a section of the wall.</p><p>Joe frowns, glancing quickly over.  Then he gasps, focusing fully on it, the gun in his hands lowering involuntarily as he takes a ragged step toward it.  It’s… it’s Nicolo.  Sketches, paintings, notes and stories from seven-hundred-year-old diaries and even older church records.  There is a pen and ink drawing in his own hand, the paper brown with age.  It’s… it’s… god, Joe doesn’t have <em>words</em>. </p><p>“…Who the hell are you?  Why do you have this?” he demands, his voice raw, turning on Copley once more.  “Where the <em>hell</em> did you get all of this?”</p><p>Copley swallows.  “I… my wife died,” he says, and it takes Joe aback so suddenly that he physically jerks.  Copley stares at him, the pain and grief exposed on his face even as he kneels on the floor, three guns trained on his head.  “She died, and it was… horrible.  I was trying to find meaning in my life again, something to do to try and stop anyone from—from suffering the way she did.  And I… I found you.  All of you.  The legends of people who cannot die.”</p><p>Joe glances back at the others.  Nile is frowning, focused on Copley—Nicolo has lowered his gun, his face pale and ghost-like as he drifts toward a part of the wall that Joe hasn’t looked at yet.  He raises one thin hand, fingers brushing a story.  He follows the string from there down to a photo of a young woman, several decades later.  “<em>This</em>,” he says in Genoese, pointing at the German caption.  “<em>What does this mean</em>?”</p><p>Copley looks between him and Joe as Joe translates Nicky's words.  Then he slowly stands, pointing.  “The ghost sailor, here… he saved a man from drowning on the German coast and then disappeared into the night.  That man’s great granddaughter is working on the human trials of a gene therapy to cure alzheimers.  They think she’ll succeed.”</p><p>He pauses, and then points at another story.</p><p>“Here, the ghost sailor again.  He towed a sinking barge to shore in the Netherlands.  The son of the son of the captain went on to work as an ambassador to Yemen.  He’s saved the lives of at least thirty Yemeni children from starvation.”</p><p>He points to another.  A refugee in a rowboat that Joe saved.  And there, three generations later, a descendant who predicted the possibility of a bridge collapse and who personally blocked the road to the bridge the day it finally went down.  And then another.  And then another.  So many lives that Joe has saved, and the people who were saved down the line as a result.</p><p>“It’s a pattern,” Copley says, turning to them all, his hands splayed in a beseeching gesture.  “One of you saves a life, and two, three generations later, we reap the benefits.  I just can’t figure out why…”</p><p>He pauses, touching a drawing of Andy.  “Why what?” Nile asks, off to one side.</p><p>Copley turns to her, his hands shaking.  “Why the immortality would end,” he says, his voice wavering, filled with pain and desperation.</p><p>The story comes quickly after that.  How Copley got into contact with Booker, and arranged for their capture.  How it took two months of dedicated coordination to finally trap them.  How they discovered after they were in custody that Andy and Quynh weren’t healing.  How he tried to reason with Merrick, tried to free them—how Merrick brushed him aside, too focused on the money to consider the lives on the line. </p><p>“I thought he was like me,” Copley says, his eyes too wide.  “I thought he was doing it for the right reasons.  But he’s just in it for the fame, for the money—he doesn’t care what actually happens to them.”</p><p>Joe has given the man a fair bit of patience as he’s told the story, he thinks.  He’s listened to him talk, listened to his reasoning.  And now… he’s done.</p><p>Joe turns his gun back on Copley, clicking the safety back.</p><p>“I’ve heard enough,” he says.  “If you want to save the world from suffering, if you really want to make a difference, then you start right here, right now, by telling me where my family is.  I’ve spent too long torn away from the people I love to let a <em>worm like you</em> get between us.”</p><p>Copley swallows and nods, hands raised.  “I’ll take you,” he says.  “I’ll get you inside.”</p><p>Joe studies him for a long moment before tucking his gun away, turning to Nicolo and taking his hand.  “Good,” he says.  “Let’s go.”</p><p>And they walk out of the room, past Nile, ignoring the way her eyebrows are raised, impressed. </p><p>***</p><p>Nicolo sleeps on the ride into the city proper, exhausted and trying to conserve his energy.  Joe settles in beside him, watching Copley in the driver’s seat as he navigates them to the lab.  Every once in a while Copley will look back in the rear view mirror, questions in his eyes, but Joe thinks he’s doing a fairly good job of communicating that if Copley sticks his fingers into the cage Joe will bite them off, seeing as the man has wisely kept silent thus far.</p><p>They arrive soon after that, and Copley leads them into a side entrance, explaining as he does that this is how Merrick gets people in and out unseen.  The man then goes to enter the elevator.</p><p>Nile stops him, a hand on his shoulder.  “No.  This is where you go home.”</p><p>“I have to help.  I have to make this right,” Copley says.</p><p>But Nile shakes her head.  “Your <em>death</em> won’t fix this,” she says.  Then, softer, “You got us where we need to be.  We’ll take it from here.”</p><p>Joe waits impatiently as Copley hesitates still.  Finally, after a long moment, the man nods, handing over his key card and instructing them on where to go. </p><p>“Good luck,” he says, as the elevator doors close.  Nile nods back, and then they’re heading up.</p><p>Their first obstacles are the guards stationed just around the corner from the elevator.  Nile and Joe quickly come up with a plan before the doors open, Nicolo silently soaking it up as they go, taking their lead.  Nile will go first, as a distraction—while she’s talking to the guards Joe and Nicolo will come around the corner and take them out.</p><p>Nile smiles a grim smile before she walks around the corner and begins to talk.  Joe waits a moment, glancing at Nicolo—he has his hand on the grip of his sword, silently pulling it free.  He nods once to Joe.  Joe nods back.  Then, just like that, they’re off, whipping around and taking the guards by surprise. </p><p>Joe is focused on the mission, but he’s also focused on Nicolo, his attention always drawn back to his love.  And he’s very glad that he’s watching, because though Nicolo is so thin, his body weak and barely having begun healing, he’s still a <em>force of nature</em> when he moves.  He pushes through the exhaustion with a single-minded focus, movements economical and precise.  It takes but a moment to take down the guard he’s aiming for, and then he stands over him, thin chest rising and falling rapidly, incandescently alive.</p><p>“Like an eagle,” Nile says, awed, breaking Joe’s concentration. </p><p>Joe raises an eyebrow at her. </p><p>“You compared him to an eagle once,” she explains.  “Diving from the sky, beak and talons deadly sharp—I get it now.”  Then, almost under her breath, “We have <em>got</em> to get him a sniper rifle.”</p><p>Joe grins.  “Believe me, I plan to,” he says.  Then he begins striding forward down the hallway, the others at his back.</p><p>It’s time to take this place by storm.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Chapter 35</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Merrick Laboratories; London, England; modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Quynh is speaking to Andy in an older Scythian tongue, one that Booker doesn’t know, when she hears the first gunshots.  She pauses in her breakdown of the security protocols she’s observed, the two of them looking at each other with wide eyes before they turn in unison to face the door.  Booker has perked up, as well, and the doctor is frowning over her shoulder.  The four of them wait to see if anything else of note will happen.</p><p>A moment later something does, more gunshots echoing.  They are coming steadily closer, and Quynh frowns.  She has no idea what’s happening—maybe the lab is under attack from a competitor?  Mercenaries here to try and kidnap them from their kidnappers—how likely is that to happen?</p><p>She doesn’t know.  Unfortunately, there isn’t much she can do except wait and see what comes next.  She pulls at the restraints on her arms, shifting slightly.  She can practically hear the tension of the others beside her, stuck in the same position.  Whatever is happening… whatever this is… this might be a shot.  A chance to escape during the chaos.  She listens, breaths slow and even, and waits.</p><p>Soon enough she hears footsteps approaching the lab.  The doctor is frowning at the door—it’s locked, but whoever is out there might be able to force it.  Quynh braces for gunshots.  Except there are none, because a moment later the light goes green, as if whoever is on the other side has a key card with lab access.  Quynh sits up as straight as she can as the door swings open, and—</p><p>“Nile,” she and Booker say, in sync.  “Watch out—” Booker then says, as the doctor scrambles to her feet, reaching for a syringe.</p><p>Nile swings, knocking her out expertly.  “Hi, guys,” she says.  “We have a <em>lot</em> to tell you.”</p><p>“Who is—?” Quynh begins, and then—“<em>JOE</em>!”</p><p>He grins, swinging inside next.  He’s bright, his back straight and a bounce in his step.  It’s such a stark difference from how he’s been for the last five hundred years that Quynh double takes, staring at him as he quickly moves to the side, holding the door open for—for—</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” Andy says, as Quynh lets out a wordless shriek, beginning to tug at her bindings in earnest.  “Oh my god, <em>Nicolo</em>—”</p><p>“Here,” Nile says, quickly coming over to release Quynh from her bonds.  One hand, two, and then Quynh is tearing at the straps holding down her legs.  She leaps to her feet the moment she’s free, taking three shaking steps forward until she’s in front of Nicolo.  He’s like a ghost, so thin and so pale, his hair and beard frighteningly long, but he’s solid under her hands as she grasps his arms, his shoulders, his scruffy face.  He leans down over her, still so much taller than her, and the next time she blinks the tears in her eyes spill down her cheeks.</p><p>“<em>Hello, Quynh</em>,” he says, in her native tongue, still thick with the accent he never managed to shake.  “<em>I</em><em>’ve missed you</em>.”</p><p>She laughs, a touch hysterical, and throws her arms around his thin shoulders.  A moment later Andy joins them, wrapping her arms around both of them, her hand buried in Nicolo’s hair as she presses her forehead to his temple.  She’s murmuring in a mix of languages that even Quynh barely understands, this litany of <em>oh, god, oh, god, praise be</em>.</p><p>Nile clears her throat, clearly on edge.  “Okay, so I know this has been a long time coming, but maybe we should get out of the creepy torture lab before you have your touching reunion.”</p><p>She then turns, reaching to release Booker’s bindings.</p><p>“Wait,” say at least three voices, Booker’s voice loudest of all.</p><p>Nile pauses, glancing between them.  “We don’t have time for this,” she says, frowning.</p><p>Booker just shakes his head.  “Leave me here,” he says, a note of despondency in his voice.</p><p>“Fine by me,” Joe says, and starts toward the door.  Nicolo stops him, however, watching Booker with an intensity that Quynh hasn’t seen in five hundred years.  “Nicolo…” Joe says, but Nicolo shakes his head.</p><p>“<em>We take him with us</em>,” he says in Genoese, his voice firm.  Then he gestures at Nile.  “Untie,” he says in English.</p><p>Nile moves again to unstrap Booker.</p><p>“No, you don’t—you don’t understand,” Booker says, flinching away from her.  “Just <em>leave me</em>.”</p><p>“No,” Nile says, and purposefully unclips the first of the straps.  “Nicolo is right, you’re coming with us.  No man left behind.”</p><p>Quynh grits her teeth.  “He betrayed us—” she begins.</p><p>“And we’ll deal with it,” Andy says, in her boss voice.  She turns to Booker, fierce and determined.  “You fucked up, Book.  We’re not denying that.  But it’s time to get the fuck up and deal with the consequences now.”</p><p>Booker stares at her for a long moment, his eyes big and sad in his face.  Then he swallows, and nods, and reaches to unhook the strap on his other arm.  He stands up a moment later, accepting the gun that Joe hands over and avoiding Nicolo’s eyes, which are glued on him.</p><p>“Are you sure about this?” Joe asks Andy, handing her a gun as well. </p><p>She checks the magazine, slamming it back in with finality.  “We walk out of here like always,” she says, and looks at each of them in turn.  She lingers on Quynh last, and the look is clear—<em>together</em>.</p><p>Quynh nods, taking the last of Joe’s guns.  They’re ready.  It’s time to go.</p><p>They fall into formation swiftly and easily, even accounting for the fact that there are three members of the team who haven’t accompanied them on missions any time recently, for varying reasons.  Joe covers Nicolo, Booker covers Andy, and Nile covers Quynh, and it’s as if they’ve been doing it for forever.  They hack through wave after wave of private goons in no time at all, making their way through the facility.  Andy is a force to be reckoned with, ferocity unparalleled—Quynh grins as Booker attempts to keep out of her way while also shielding her from bullets.  It’s all going rather well, actually—until the gas grenade goes off.</p><p>It knocks them all off their feet, hitting Joe and Nicolo the hardest.  They’re still out when Quynh manages to stand, stumbling out into the hallway and away from the gas.  She doesn’t go far—just far enough to have a good view into the room where she won’t be immediately exposed.  She and Andy lock eyes, a plan solidifying.  Then she watches as Booker helps Andy down the hallway, in chase of Merrick.  Nile frowns, staying at Quynh’s side.</p><p>“What’s the plan?” she whispers.</p><p>Quynh nods to the other room, where men in gas masks are beginning to creep through the fog.  Joe is coming awake, coughing hard—he begins to crawl over to Nicolo just as one of the men strides forward and kicks him in the head.  The other men are heading off in the direction that Andy and Booker went, and Quynh motions for Nile to take them.  Then, holding her breath, she steps into the gassed room, raises her gun, and shoots the man standing over Joe right in the head. </p><p>He crumbles, hitting the floor.  Three corresponding shots in the hall, Nile taking down the others, and they’re good to go.  Quynh wastes no time in kneeling down beside Nicolo, helping him to his feet, Joe on his other side.  The four of them make their way out, slowly and steadily following Booker and Andy’s footsteps in their search for Merrick, the man responsible for everything that has happened to them in the past three days.</p><p>They’re going to find him, Quynh knows.  They’re going to find him and he is going to wish that he was <em>never fucking born</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Chapter 36</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Still Merrick Laboratories; London, England; modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>They’re taking heavy fire, Booker pinned down as he struggles to keep the guards at bay.  The damn things are coming from the woodwork like ants, crawling about, and Andy is <em>sick of it</em>.  Her side aches, her back hurts, her knuckles are sore, and she is <em>pissed</em>.</p><p>The good news is that there is more than one way around a building this large.  There has to be.  And Andy?  She has had just about enough of this shit to inspire her to find it.</p><p>It’s about here that she spots the axe in the case on the wall.  Now <em>that</em> she can work with.  She opens the case, hefting it up to feel its weight.  Then she stalks off the other direction, leaving Booker and his company behind, taking out every goon that she sees on her way.</p><p>It doesn’t take long before she reaches a long hallway with large windows.  She hears a guard coming down it, and pauses for a moment to gather her breath.  She’s getting tired faster than she should be, her side throbbing, but she isn’t about to stop now.  She turns the corner toward the guard and takes off at a run.</p><p>The scuffle is decent, this one actually putting up a bit of a fight.  Andy is almost impressed—until he hits the floor and doesn’t get up again, anyway.  She huffs, standing over him, as the others arrive. </p><p>“Where’s Merrick?” she asks through bared teeth, though it’s not really a question.</p><p>He pauses only a moment, staring up at the six of them all towering over him, weapons drawn, before he spits out, “Penthouse.”</p><p>Smart, this one.  She nods, and glances up at her family. </p><p>Quynh is already grinning, clapping her hands.  “Sao Paolo ‘34!” she says. </p><p>Andy grins.  “That’s the one,” she says.</p><p>“What happened in Sao Paolo in nineteen thirty-four?” Nile asks.</p><p>“Eighteen thirty-four,” Andy corrects.  “And you’ll see.  Nile, Quynh—with me.  Boys—we’ll meet you there.”</p><p>And so up they go, climbing up the building to the penthouse.  Quynh gives the short version of Sao Paolo on the way, telling Nile to watch out for the signal.</p><p>“What’s the signal?” Nile asks.</p><p>“You’ll know it when it comes,” Andy says, and shares a smile with Quynh.  The next moment they dive into action, together, effortlessly taking out the guards just outside the door.  As the last body falls they get into position, crouched down and waiting. </p><p>There’s silence for a moment, before Nile grunts and begins to unstrap the bullet proof vest from one of the bodies.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Quynh asks.  She looks like she’s trying not to laugh, which she probably is.</p><p>“You’re mortal,” Nile says, by way of explanation.  “I’ll go in first—I’ll protect you and—”</p><p>Andy puts her hand on Nile’s, stilling the girl.  “We go in first,” she says.</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“If it doesn’t work, then next time you can go first,” Quynh says, as if reading Andy’s mind.  They share another moment, just long enough for Andy to feel so, <em>so</em> incredibly lucky that Quynh is here by her side.  If she didn’t have Quynh, she doesn’t know where she’d be now—deep in a bottle, she supposes, just trying to drown her sorrows, feeling her age.  It isn’t a life she wants to imagine. </p><p>Instead she focuses on Quynh, on her easy smile and her quick reflexes.  She thinks about Nile, having come to them just when Joe needed her most—about Nicolo, lost and finally found.  There are holes in their family, of course there are—Booker is proof of that.  But she’s glad to have them, all the same.</p><p>She’s also glad that humanity decided to invent grenades.  She fucking loves those things.</p><p>The sound of Joe crashing through the window rings a moment later, followed by a grenade going off inside the penthouse.  There it is—that’s their cue to go.  Andy charges in head first, Quynh at her side and Nile at her back, and she feels like she’s barely a hundred again, young and unstoppable.</p><p>She’s grinning as she heads in to take down the man who calls himself Stephen Merrick.</p><p>***</p><p>The fight is quick and dirty, the last of the guards ill-equipped to do much damage without their leader, but by the end everyone is flagging.  Nicolo is barely on his feet, swaying a little where he stands, his thin chest heaving from all the motion.  Joe quickly crosses the room to him, sitting him down against a wall.  Andy is feeling about the same—achy and stiff and a little unsteady on her feet. </p><p>Until Quynh notices the elevator, anyway.  Then all she feels is fury.</p><p>“No, you <em>stay</em>,” Quynh says, when Andy makes to follow them out the door in chase of Merrick.  Andy frowns, but Quynh is dead serious—it probably has something to do with the fact that Andy has a gunshot wound in her side that’s been bleeding for the last twenty minutes.  Andy thinks about butting heads with her, demanding to give chase—but then she thinks about Nicolo, and about Joe and Nile, and she sighs.</p><p>“Get him good,” she says, and with a sharp nod Quynh is off, following Booker down the hall.  How she still has the energy to do that Andy isn’t sure, but she accepts it with a groan.  She then heads for the window and the fresh air coming through it, breathing deeply in. </p><p>Nile follows her, giving the lovebirds a bit of space.  “Hey,” she says, a little awkwardly.  “Are you okay?”</p><p>Andy nods to her.  “It’s fine.  Just hurts, is all.  …Actually, everything hurts.”</p><p>Nile scoffs.  “Wait until tomorrow,” she says.</p><p>Andy smiles.  It’s refreshing, to have a kid around.  So young… fresh… untainted by the world.  Learning how to be invincible.  It’s nice.  She’s glad that Nile was there for Joe.</p><p>…Maybe she ought to say that.  If Booker’s betrayal is anything to go by, she clearly needs to pay more attention to the young ones.  She was convinced that if she just did her thing they would grow up and eventually fall into line behind her, but clearly that isn’t the case.  She sighs.  Then she glances over at Nile—</p><p>—just in time for Joe to shout Nicolo’s name.  There’s a blur of motion at the base of the stairs—it’s Nicolo, launching himself up them at the man who was sneaking down, holding a gun up in Andy’s direction. </p><p>It’s Merrick.  He must have been hiding upstairs somewhere.  Andy watches as he yelps, thrown off balance when Nicolo tackles him.  He pulls the trigger as they both come tumbling down the stairs, hitting the floor to the sound of a bullet ricocheting across the room. </p><p>Joe is there in seconds, snatching the gun away as Nicolo struggles up on his elbows, pushing away from the asshole CEO.  Nicolo coughs, his back hunching—there’s blood running from his mouth.</p><p>Joe sees it at the same time as Andy does, freezing where he stands as Merrick cowers beneath him.  The bullet—it must have hit Nicolo, passing clean through his thin chest.  Andy moves her feet on instinct, pace quickening as she all but sprints across the room to get to them.</p><p>Nicolo dies just as she gets there, his weak limbs giving out.  She catches him as he collapses forward onto the floor, and Joe—Joe <em>howls</em>, a wordless sound of pain and grief and fury, the same sound she heard him make once upon a time, as he knelt by the sea with the blood of priests and sailors and jailers splattered up his hands to his shoulders.  Merrick scrambles away, crawling on his hands and knees as Joe falls to his knees at Andy’s side, taking Nicolo from her.</p><p>“No no no no—” he’s saying, panicked, as he strokes a few strands of Nicolo’s long hair back from his bloody face.  “No, <em>habibi</em>, please—please no—you can’t—”</p><p>“Joe—” Andy tries, reaching for his shoulder.  “Joe, it’s okay—he’s coming back already, look, the wound is closing—”</p><p>But Joe shakes his head, his eyes wild, flinching away from her as he cries.  “I can’t—I can’t—” he says, and he’s starting to hyperventilate, clutching Nicolo close.  Nicolo’s glazed eyes stare up at the ceiling, listless, lifeless, lost—until, slowly, they blink.  He chokes a little, one thin hand rising to clutch Joe’s shirt.</p><p>“Yusuf,” he croaks, and then looks past Joe to Andy, and then past Andy to—</p><p>Fuck, Merrick!  Andy spins around, reaching for the gun that Joe dropped—</p><p>—only to find Nile there, a white-face Merrick frozen in her grip as she holds a knife to his throat.  Andy raises an eyebrow—Nile quirks her lips up.  “You never know when you might need a knife,” she says.  “Right Joe?”</p><p>If it’s an inside joke Joe is too far gone right now to react.  He sobs into Nicolo’s hair, relief and anger radiating off of him in equal parts.</p><p>Nile sighs.  “Well, anyway.  What should I do with him?” she asks.</p><p>At this, Joe bares his teeth.  “Bring him here.  I'll kill him myself,” he says, his voice low, shaking with the force of his fury. </p><p>“If you insist,” Nile says.  Then, to Merrick, “You really shouldn't have shot Nicolo, man.”  She begins to walk them forward.</p><p>It is here that three things happen in quick succession.  One—Merrick jerks his head back, headbutting Nile in the nose in a desperate bid to get free.  Two, Nile stumbles back, still holding tight to him.  And three…</p><p>…three, they both go over the edge of the broken window, Nile letting out a, “SHIT!” as she loses her footing.  A few moments later there’s the unmistakable sound of metal crunching.</p><p>Andy groans, and pushes herself to her feet to peer out after them.  Yeah, that’s gonna leave a mark.  They’ll be lucky to get out of this one without the entire world knowing their secret.  She sighs.  Then she heads back to Joe to see if she can get them the fuck out of here yet.</p><p>He’s just pulling himself together as she arrives, Nicolo stroking his face and murmuring softly.  “You two good to go?” Andy asks.</p><p>“Yes,” Nicolo says, just as Joe shakes his head no.  Nicolo quirks his mouth up in a smile, sighing softly, a fond expression on his face.  Clearly, they are still as in love as they were five hundred years ago.  Andy feels her lips quirking upward as he murmurs something to Joe, causing Joe to swallow, gritting his teeth.  Joe shakes his head once before he stands, ponderous and slow, bringing Nicolo along with him.</p><p>They get downstairs just as the sirens start off in the distance.  Nicolo is leaning on Joe all the way down, but once they reach the pavement he pats Joe on the chest, pulling away to join Quynh and Booker as they help Nile out of the crushed car.  He stumbles over to her, reaching his hand out for her to take.</p><p>She does, holding him up just as much as he’s holding her up.  “<em>Ow</em>,” she says, emphatically, as her bones finish popping back into place.  Then she looks up at Joe, her eyes bright and clear.  “We’re okay,” she says.</p><p>And Joe nods, a small smile on his face despite the still-drying tears.  And Andy takes Quynh’s hand, and Booker follows along like a kicked puppy, and they’re here, all of them, just like they’re supposed to be. </p><p>They climb into a car and head off just before the first responders round the corner, <em>together</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Chapter 37</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Just outside the gamma safe house; Colchester, England; modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>They’re okay.  They’re okay.  They made it, all together, and they’re okay, all six of them.  Some slightly more than others, maybe, considering the fact that Nicolo is currently dead to the world, snoring slightly against Joe’s side, but the damage is minimal.  Sure, Nile has had her worst death yet, and sure, Andy has a bullet hole in her side that was put there by one of their own, but in all honesty, they’re doing about as well as Joe could have hoped after everything that's happened.</p><p>There’s also the added bonus of that asshole, Merrick, being a pancake on a car in the city.  The only regret Joe has is that he didn’t throw him out the window himself.</p><p>“You coming or what?”</p><p>Joe shakes himself from his thoughts, looking up at Nile.  She’s waiting at the open door of the car, eyes tired but clear.  The others have already stepped inside, leaving the three of them to sort themselves out.</p><p>Joe sighs, shifting the lump leaning against him.  “Nicolo,” he says, stroking his hair.  He has blood flecked in his beard still, despite the fact that Joe spent the first twenty minutes of the drive trying to clean every scrap of evidence that Nicolo had died off of him.</p><p>Nicolo, usually a light sleeper, doesn’t wake.  He’s exhausted.</p><p>“Here,” Nile says, leaning in to take the arm not pressed against Joe’s side.  “I’ll lift and you can push, okay?”</p><p>Joe nods, the routine familiar from the past few days, while Nicolo was there but not there.  This time when they begin to move him, however, he groans and blinks his eyes partway open, fingers fumbling to hold onto Nile.</p><p>“Hey,” Nile says, smiling.  “You okay to walk to the house?”</p><p>Nicolo laboriously turns his head toward the safe house, sleepy eyes blinking.  Then he shakes himself, pressing one hand to his eye and scrubbing.  “…<em>Want to talk to Booker</em>,” he says in Genoese, the words slurring a little.</p><p>“<em>It can wait till tomorrow</em>,” Joe says.</p><p>But Nicolo shakes his head, stubborn.  “<em>Booker</em>,” he insists.</p><p>Joe bites his lip.  “<em>Habibi</em>…”</p><p>“<em>Do not.  I waited two hundred years, Yusuf.  No more</em>.”</p><p>“…What are you two talking about?” Nile asks, cutting in.</p><p>Joe sighs, feeling his own exhaustion kick up a notch.  “…We’re going to go talk to Booker,” he says, and frowns when Nicolo’s lip twitches in a triumphant smile.  Stubborn <em>bastard</em>.</p><p>Joe at least manages to convince Nicolo to let him carry him inside.  Nicolo’s muscles are shaking from the strain of the day, and if he insists on prolonging that strain then the very least Joe can do is make him as comfortable as it’s humanly possible to be. </p><p>Booker is standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room when Joe makes it inside, fingers twitching at his sides like he isn’t sure what to do with himself.  Andy and Quynh are bickering in the bathroom, probably arguing about the soap they picked up on the way here.  Joe pays them no mind.  He just sets Nicolo down on the dusty couch, sends Nile on a mission to procure some tea from the kitchen, and fussily arranges Nicolo with a blanket.  He waits until he’s completely satisfied before he turns and nails Booker with a <em>look</em>.</p><p>“You.  Sit down,” he says.</p><p>For a moment it looks as if Booker is going to bolt.  Then, slowly, he clears his throat and sits stiffly beside Nicolo, not quite angled to face him.</p><p>They’re quiet for a moment.  Joe, standing off to one side, contemplates giving them some privacy, but the idea of leaving Nicolo alone with Booker makes him feel sick to his stomach.  Unless Nicolo asks him to leave he’s staying right where he is.</p><p>Thankfully, Nicolo doesn’t ask.  Instead he beckons Joe closer.  “<em>I don</em><em>’t want to think in French</em>,” he says in Genoese.  “<em>Too much in my head already, too many words.  Hard to get my thoughts from one side to the other.</em>”</p><p>“<em>It</em><em>’s okay.  I’ll translate</em>,” Joe says.  He then relays the message to Booker.</p><p>Booker nods, staring down at his hands.</p><p>Nicolo takes a moment more, clearly having some trouble keeping his thoughts together.  But he’s determined, Joe can tell—he has something he wants to say, and it’s important enough for him to do it before they even clean off the blood and change their clothes.  He begins slowly, shaping the words one at a time.</p><p>“<em>I just want to say</em><em>… that I know.  I knew.  I knew it was going to happen.  For a long time, I knew.</em>”</p><p>Joe repeats the words, in French so that they have a better chance at getting through Booker’s thick skull.  Booker winces like Nicolo has slapped him.</p><p>“<em>How</em>?” he croaks, also in French.  “<em>How could you know I would do this</em>?”</p><p>Joe looks at Nicolo, silently asking if he needs to translate Booker, too.  Nicolo subtly shakes his head, eyes locked on the Frenchman.</p><p>“<em>I dreamt it</em>,” he says, and his voice is soft, softer than Joe thinks it should be.  “<em>I felt it.</em>”</p><p>At that Booker looks up, his eyes huge and sad in his face, gaze locked on Nicolo like Nicolo is some sort of holy punishment meted out by God Himself.  He looks at Nicolo like he expects to be punished, deserves to be punished, like he’s waiting for his heart to be weighed on the scales of divinity and rejected for the heft of the sins it bears.</p><p>But Nicolo does not punish him.  He does not weigh his heart and find him lacking.  Nicolo is a man who was broken once, the day he witnessed his fellow crusaders at the slaughter of the city of Jerusalem, and once again, four hundred years later, as he was pitched into the sea in a cage of iron.  He was broken… and that pain, that anguish, has only ever made him kinder. </p><p>Booker winces again as Nicolo leans forward, but Nicolo shushes him, shaking his head.  “<em>I do not blame you</em>,” he says.  “<em>I just wish I could have been here to tell you that this pain</em><em>… it will not last forever</em>.”</p><p>Booker gapes, his mouth falling open.  “<em>I—but</em>—” he begins.</p><p>Nicolo shushes him again, reaching thin hands up until they are pressed to Booker’s cheeks, holding him steady.  “<em>I should have been here to tell you to not add more pain to the world in search of a way out.  Because the end</em><em>… it will come.  It will.  But only when it’s meant to come and not a single moment sooner.</em>”</p><p>By the end of his speech, Andy and Quynh have both gone silent, standing in the doorway of the bathroom and looking out at the scene in the living room.  Nile is just outside the kitchen, watching on with a frown on her face.  Joe meets each of their eyes as he translates, in English this time so that they all understand. </p><p>As Joe finishes speaking Nicolo’s words, Booker shudders, his face scrunching up.  He gasps in a breath—and then another—and then he’s crying, his hands fumbling until he’s gripping Nicolo’s thin wrists, holding him like he’s afraid that he’ll pull back and take his comfort away with him.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he says, and hunches over in Nicolo’s grasp.  “I didn’t want to hurt them, I just want it to <em>stop</em>.”</p><p>“<em>This will not stop them from being angry</em>,” Nicolo says.  “<em>And sad, and confused.  They were not there with you the way I was there with you.  For two hundred years, I saw your jealousy of Andy and Quynh.  I saw your fear of my fate, of the torment that Joe went through trying to find me.  Never dying</em><em>… never seeing a way out… two lovers torn apart for five hundred years… it is only human to be jealous, to be afraid.  This I understand.  But Booker… you must listen to me now when I say this.</em>”</p><p>Here he pauses, making sure that Joe has finished translating before he continues, lifting Booker’s face to meet his gaze as he does.</p><p>“<em>The only way out—it is through.  Understand?  You must walk through the fire to reach the other side.  You must drown a million times before you reach the surface.  It hurts</em><em>… believe me, it hurts… but one day it will all be worth it.  One day, you will open your eyes and you will see the sun again.</em>”</p><p>And as he speaks the words he turns ever so slightly to meet Joe’s eyes over Booker’s shoulder, a smile on his lips.  It’s just a small one, just a twitch of his cheek, but it is the most <em>beautiful thing</em> Joe has ever seen.</p><p>Because Nicolo made it.  He drowned a million times, and he survived, and he <em>made it through</em>.  He is a sword tempered in the blood that ran in the streets of Jerusalem, in the frigid depths of the bottom of the sea.  He is the light that guides Joe in darkness, the fire that warms him in cold, the kindest man that this world has never deserved.  He felt Booker’s betrayal in the most intimate sense there is…</p><p>…and he forgives him.</p><p>Joe looks up to the others as Booker sobs in Nicolo’s hold.  There is more to address, more to talk about, consequences to be had and trust to be earned back, but here and now they are united in the knowledge that they will rest tonight, knowing that there is light that comes after the deepest, blackest darkness.  There is hope, for each and every one of them.  They will survive this.  They will.</p><p>Because they were always meant to survive it. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you see me editing chapters after they go up, no you didn't.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Chapter 38</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Gamma safe house; Colchester, England; modern day.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The night is long, the shadows playing tricks on Booker’s tired mind.  After everything that’s happened, after shooting Andy and the torture at the lab and his talk with Nicolo, he feels like he’s a wet towel that has been wrung out and left to dry.  Still, sleep isn’t going to come tonight—he listens to the sound of the others in the various rooms, their breath deep and slow.</p><p>The next day, he’s up before anyone else, contemplating the bottles of liquor stored in the cabinet.  He doesn’t know how old they are or if anyone has already made a claim on them, but it doesn’t really matter, he supposes.  He won’t be around much longer, anyway.  Today is the day his punishment is to be handed down by the others, after all.  Just because Nicolo forgave him doesn’t mean anyone else has.</p><p>He sighs, and pours himself a cup.</p><p>The others appear slowly as the morning goes on, first Andy then Nile then Quynh and finally Joe.  Nicolo doesn’t come with him—at Nile’s raised brow Joe shrugs and says that he’s still sleeping.</p><p>“He needs it,” Quynh says, decisive. </p><p>“No argument there,” Joe says, and cuts his eyes over at Booker.  Booker shrinks against the counter he’s leaning on.</p><p>At about noon, Nile makes a small pot of soup from the various canned goods stored in the pantry, and Joe takes it into the bedroom he and Nicolo were sharing.  The soft murmur of voices drifts out, and Booker resists the urge to peek in to make sure that Nicolo is eating, building his strength back up.  He thinks about the dreams he had in the lab—scattered shards where he was drifting between pain and nausea and that distant nothingness—and his stomach turns over.</p><p>Joe is right.  Nicolo should not have been fighting yesterday.  He shouldn’t have had to.</p><p>It’s another layer of guilt and anger wrapped around Booker’s psyche.  He feels cocooned in it, immersed in it—like his sons’ deaths were a rope wrapped around his neck that has just kept winding tighter and tighter as the many, many, <em>many</em> years of his extended life have come and passed, never ending.  He feels trapped, and after two hundred years of dreaming of Nicolo, he’d know what that feels like.</p><p>It would be safer if he left the others.  It would be better for them, all of them, if he were exiled.</p><p>And yet.  Here he is, selfishly hoping that it doesn’t come to that.  Or that if it does, that they don’t make him leave for too long.  He knows he deserves it, but he doesn’t think his heart could stand to be alone.</p><p>He breathes out, staring down into the cup of hard liquor that has suddenly become unappealing. </p><p>…What a mess he’s made of everything.</p><p>***</p><p>It’s late afternoon by the time Nicolo appears, his long braid starting to come loose, strands caught in his beard.  He’s changed out of the clothes he was in yesterday but he hasn’t taken a shower yet, if the smell is anything to go by.  He smells of sweat and blood and, underneath that, the tang of the sea. </p><p>Joe, who has been lounging on the couch not-so-discretely watching Booker all day, is up immediately.  “<em>Tesoro</em>—how are you feeling?” he asks, speaking in English.  For Nile’s benefit, Booker guesses, as she looks over at them, eyes sharp.  Andy and Quynh stop bickering over the magazines on the table and turn, as well, watching.</p><p>“I am… how you say… sleepy?” Nicolo says.  His arms are folded a little oddly, elbows bent and hands tucked up close to his chest.  Booker frowns, wondering if he’s cold. </p><p>Joe nods, guiding Nicolo into the little kitchen.  “Come.  You need food.”</p><p>“Yes.  Are there—we are planning to do something today still, yes?” Nicolo asks, settling slowly in the chair that Joe pulls out for him.  “I’m sorry for sleeping.”</p><p>“Hey… you needed it,” Joe says, voice lowering as he leans in to press his forehead to Nicolo’s.  “We’re going to discuss what to do with Booker but the asshole can stand to wait a bit longer.”</p><p>Nicolo frowns.  “What to do with… I do not understand.”</p><p>Joe pauses at the pantry, where he’s reaching for a can of beans.  “Do I need to rephrase it?” he asks.</p><p>“No, I…”  Nicolo huffs, switching to Genoese.  He speaks rapidly, turning to face Joe.</p><p>Booker holds his breath as Joe responds in kind, his voice low and controlled.  They go back and forth for a long moment, Andy and Quynh following along like it’s a tennis match.  Nile seems to be picking up a bit more than Booker, but even she looks somewhat lost.</p><p>Finally, Nicolo shakes his head.  “No,” he says in English.  He turns away from Joe, facing the table.</p><p>“<em>Habibi</em>,” Joe says, a plaintive note in his voice.  “We need to talk about it, at the very least—”</p><p>“<em>No</em>.”</p><p>Joe turns to Andy and Quynh, beseeching.</p><p>Quynh speaks first, glancing over at Booker with a pinch to her face.  “Nicolo… you spent a long time alone.  The trauma you went through… we can’t imagine.  I just wonder if you are seeing the whole picture.”</p><p>“My eyes are good,” Nicolo says, turning and nailing her with a glare as if to demonstrate.  “It is you who do not see.”</p><p>Quynh’s face twists further.  “Have you spent so long in the sea that you have forgotten what it means to be family?  He <em>betrayed us</em>, Nicolo.  He allowed us to be captured—the one thing we fear above all else.”</p><p>But Nicolo only shakes his head.  “I know if we are to hurt, we hurt together,” he says, calm and steady. </p><p>“With the man who caused the hurt?” Quynh counters.</p><p>At that Booker swallows, his heart beginning to pick up in his chest.  That’s a good point.</p><p>But Nicolo does not budge.  “Yes,” he says, still so calm.  “He is one of us—we stay together.  If he does not stay, I go.  <em>I</em> will stay with him.”</p><p>“You can’t just—<em>Nicolo</em>—” Joe starts, voice pleading, but Nicolo cuts over him, saying, “He goes, I go.  The end.”</p><p>“Hang on—” Andy says, speaking for the first time, but before she can say anything else Nicolo stands, a flicker of something deep and unfathomable in his face.</p><p>“No,” he says.  “I spoke.  I said my words.  We hurt, we hurt together.  Not apart.  <em>Never</em> apart.  Never again.”</p><p>At the end he is dangerously quiet, dangerously still, utterly alone where he stands.  He is awash in the middle of the sea, filled with an ancient pain that transcends human lifetimes, the pain of a million and a half deaths at the mercy of the depths of water so cold and so dark as to be inescapable. </p><p>For a long moment, the house is silent.  Then…</p><p>“…Fine,” Joe says.  “If this is what you want… then I’m in.  We keep the traitor.”</p><p>“Yeah, you’re not going off on your own,” Nile says.  “Not now.  Booker stays.”  She looks over at Andy and Quynh, waiting for their input.</p><p>Quynh lets out a growl.  “He <em>shot Andromache</em>!” she says, throwing a hand out toward the woman in question, as if they’ve all forgotten who she’s talking about. </p><p>Andy takes it, holding her steady.  Then she takes a deep breath, turning to Booker.  “There has to be a price.  What you did… it could have cost us so much more than it did.  You will have to pay back your debts for a long time to come.  But I think… if Quynh agrees… that you can do it here.  With us.”</p><p>Quynh huffs, her teeth bared.  Still, she does not pull back from Andy’s grasp, instead relaxing ever so slightly.  She glances around at all the rest of them, her lips pursed.</p><p>“If you’re all sure about this… then I propose Booker has to clean all our weapons for the next two hundred years.”</p><p>Booker looks up at her, his a lump lodged in his throat.  She meets his gaze, daring him to argue.  He doesn’t.  “…Agreed,” he says.</p><p>“And he has to do all the dishes,” she says.</p><p>“Agreed.”</p><p>“And he has to clean all the toilets in all our safe houses,” Joe pitches in, a small, wicked smile growing on his face.</p><p>Booker snorts, a little too wet.  “Agreed,” he says.</p><p>And then they’re off, pitching a dozen menial punishments one after another—grocery shopping, and cutting onions, and no more alcohol in the safe houses—except maybe that one vintage—and as they do Booker finds himself laughing, a tear-filled laugh of relief and love and guilt and pain.  Because he knows the wound is deep, deeper than some chores will fix, but he’s willing to try.  He’s willing to try.</p><p>***</p><p>They rest for a few more days after that, gathering strength and tending after Andy’s wound and taking care of Nicolo.  He sleeps for most of it, his many naps interspersed with meals and grooming and the twitches of his cheeks that Booker has learned are the way he smiles, subtle and sweet.  Right now he’s propped up on one elbow, watching as Nile takes out her cornrows and tries to show Joe how to braid her hair in a new style, humming to himself.  He’s finally beginning to look a little less gaunt, a little less tired—soon he’ll be back to full health, stronger and brighter than ever.  For now, he seems content to let the others care for him.</p><p>Booker watches them laughing from the shadows of the hallway.  He wonders if he’ll have that ease back someday.  The freedom and the trust to just… laugh and be happy.</p><p>He’s drawn from his thoughts when he feels a hand on his shoulder.  It’s Andy, dressed all in black as she always is, face stoic.</p><p>“You alright there, kid?” she asks.</p><p>“I’m two hundred years old,” Booker says, with a twitch of his lips.  “At some point you’re going to realize that I’m actually an adult.”</p><p>“Yeah… you’re right,” Andy says, and sighs.  “I’ve done a shit job of taking care of all of you.  It sucks.  I’m sorry.”</p><p>Booker pulls a face.  “Boss, you don’t need to—”</p><p>“I do,” she says.  “And I think there’s something you’re going to need to see.”</p><p>Booker frowns at that, following her out into the living room as she calls everyone to attention.  The others seem to all have an idea of where they’re going, but Booker is in the dark, feeling strange and lost.  He settles into the car a moment later, his sunglasses perched on his nose.  He stays silent as he watches the countryside drift past the windows.</p><p>He frowns when they reach the highway signs for London.  “Where are we going, Boss?” he asks.</p><p>“Patience,” Andy says, smirking in the rear-view mirror.</p><p>Booker huffs, settling back again.</p><p>Their destination is, apparently, a house.  The address seems familiar somehow—Booker wracks his brains for where he knows it from, but he hasn’t figured it out by the time they go up to the front door and are greeted by—</p><p>Booker freezes.  “Copley,” he says.  “What—what are you—”</p><p>“Booker!  Hello, hello.  Come in, everyone,” Copley says.  He beckons them all in over the threshold, leading them inside to—to—</p><p>Booker stops again, gaping at the walls.  “The hell…” he says, but before he can process all the pictures of his own face Nicolo has crept up to his side, linking his arm with his and guiding him toward the wall.  “Shit, Copley, I knew you’d done your research but this is…”</p><p>“Wait,” Nicolo says, and beckons Copley over.  He then points at a picture of Booker in a world war two uniform, kneeling beside a thin, starved woman.</p><p>“Nineteen forty-five,” Copley recites.  “Booker carried a Jewish woman from a liberated concentration camp in Germany.  Her granddaughter has pioneered the medical technology for the early detection of pancreatic cancer.”</p><p>Nicolo points at another picture.</p><p>Copley recites another date, another story.</p><p>A third picture.</p><p>A third date, a third story.</p><p>And on… and on… and at the fourth, the fifth, the sixth Booker finds himself <em>overwhelmed</em> by the sheer numbers.  And this is only what Copley could dig up, good god… it’s <em>incredible</em>.</p><p>He glances back at Andy, who is studying a wall of her own face, Quynh at her side—and Nile and Joe, poking at some of the strings leading to their more recent missions—and Nicolo, looking back at Booker with an intense and knowing sort of expression on his face.</p><p>“<em>Do you see</em>?” Nicolo asks in French.</p><p>“<em>Yeah</em>,” Booker says, strangled.  “<em>I see.  Trust me, I see</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Good</em>,” Nicolo says.</p><p>Booker nods, looking back at the wall.  He takes a deep breath.  And here, right here, he makes a promise—he’ll be better.  God willing, he will be a better man.  For Nicolo, for all his many years lost for no good reason…</p><p>…and for Joe, his brother, who traveled to the ends of the earth to get him back…</p><p>…and for Andy and Quynh, two incredible immortals-turned-mortal…</p><p>…and for Nile, so new and fresh…</p><p>…and yes, even for himself.  For the man who hurts, who hurt the others, and the man who would take it all back if he only could.  The man who was given a chance that so few have—a chance to do good, to save lives, to change the very world, one small act after another. </p><p>He’ll get through this.  It’s the only way, after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy april fools lmfao.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. Chapter 39</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Great Yarmouth, England, one month later.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Flight’s at four.  Come late and we’re leaving without you.  We have a vacation to get to.”</p><p>Joe snorts at Andy without looking up.  “Yeah, and whose house is it that you’ll be vacationing in again?” he asks, pulling the laces of his boot tight.  He ties them, knots them, double knots them, and then does the same to the other before raising his eyes to meet Andy’s gaze.</p><p>The gaze that isn’t on him, he finds.  Her eyes are watching Quynh as she finishes shoving clothes back into a suitcase after repacking it for the third time, chattering to Nile as she goes.  The England skies are not kind to Quynh's complexion, but every once in a while a sunbeam makes it through the clouds and lights her black hair a deep burgundy.  Andy stares at her as if she needs to document this moment, <em>every</em> moment, as if she needs to commit her to memory.</p><p>“You okay, Boss?” Joe asks, straightening up and touching a hand to Andy’s elbow.</p><p>“Are you?” Andy counters, her sharp eyes flicking over to him at last.</p><p>Joe hums, scrubbing a hand over his beard.  His eyes, unbidden, search out the curve of Nicolo’s back where he’s hunching over a puzzle book.  They’ve been working on refeeding, getting his digestion working and his caloric intake up to what it should be, and though his energy levels are getting better he’s still weak and tires easily.  The past month has been nothing but a lot of bed rest and low energy activities—good for the body, less so for the mind.  It lent to a lot of time spent struggling to stay present.</p><p>It was Booker’s idea to try sudoku.  Number puzzles are easy enough, and Nicolo devours them.  Joe doesn’t know exactly how he feels about Booker these days, but there’s no denying the bond between Booker and Nicolo.  Nicolo spent two hundred years in Booker’s head, after all—and though Joe might prefer to hate the man, he can’t quite shake the gratitude that has settled low in his gut.  He’s grateful that Nicolo didn’t have to be alone all that time.</p><p>“Hey,” Andy says, and Joe jerks out of his thoughts.  “It’s okay to not be okay,” she says.  “We’ve been through some shit.  Some of it was bound to stick.”</p><p>Joe laughs, low and sincere.  “Yeah.  You can say that again.  I just… it doesn’t feel over yet.  Like I need to tie it off, finish it up.  You know?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Andy says, her mouth quirking up in a smile.  She looks up again, her eyes tracing Quynh’s shoulder, arm, hand, fingers.  “I know what you mean.  We've got a lot of loose ends to tie up before we go.”</p><p>Joe nods.  Then he stands, clapping her on the shoulder.  “When you write your will I want the house in Brazil,” he says, and she laughs, too, shoving him off.  He goes with a grin, angling to pluck the keys off the table.  “I’ll see you soon, <em>habibi</em>,” he says, pecking Nicolo on the cheek.  Then he heads out of the little inn they’re staying at and to the car they’ve borrowed from Copley.</p><p>He’s just sitting down in the driver’s seat when the passenger-side door opens, Nile plopping down onto the seat.  She pays him no mind, just does up her seatbelt, waiting expectantly for him to start the car.</p><p>Joe blinks at her.  “Uh?” he says.</p><p>“What, do you need me to drive?” she asks.</p><p>“No,” Joe says, miffed.  “I can drive just fine, thank you.  What are you doing?”</p><p>“What, you thought I was going to let you do this alone?” Nile asks, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>Joe stares for a long moment.  Then, as if a weight has been lifted from his chest, he breathes in deep and slow, a smile breaking across his face.  “I should have guessed you’d be coming with me,” he says, and starts the car.  “You’re like a barnacle.”</p><p>“Yeah, maybe I am,” she says, and turns on the radio to begin fiddling with it.  “Trust me, though, if anyone needs a barnacle it’s you.”</p><p>“Can’t argue with that logic,” Joe laughs, and they set off.</p><p>They get to the dock a few minutes later, pulling through the scraggly trees until the sea is in view.  And there, bobbing on the waves, is the <em>Costante</em>, in all her small, rugged glory.</p><p>Joe stares at her, a pang in his chest.  This is the last time he’ll board her.  It feels… <em>god</em>.  Like parting with a piece of his soul.  Somehow, in all his many plans, he never considered the fact that once he found Nicolo he’d have to leave her behind.</p><p>Nile, sitting beside him, hums softly.  “She’s a good boat,” she says.  “I was only second mate for two months, but… I’m gonna miss her.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Joe says.  “But she did what she was meant to do.  She brought me safe to Nicolo.  That’s all I ever asked of her.”</p><p>Nile nods.  Then she opens her door, climbs out of the car, and begins walking across the sandy beach.  Joe follows, swallowing past the lump that’s growing in his throat.  He watches as Nile puts up the gangplank, hopping right up onto it with no fear.  She’s come so far since Joe rescued her in Germany—she’s grown into herself, grown comfortable in her skin and sure on her feet.  For all the good she did for him, for Nicolo… maybe he gave her something in return.  A give and take, a balance.</p><p>“Come on, old man.  If we miss our flight I will never forgive you.”</p><p>Joe shakes his head.  “Yeah, yeah.  I’m coming.”</p><p>And, holding his breath, his heart beating, strong, in his chest, he climbs aboard.</p><p>The first things to come down are the maps in the wheelhouse, covered in sticky notes and pen marks.  Joe rips them up, stuffing them into a trash bag.  Nile is moving the remains of the iron maiden out of the hold—they’ll drop them at the landfill before they head to the airport.  Before that, however, they have to wipe every trace of Joe from the boat. </p><p>The rest of the wheelhouse goes easily, all the sonar machines reset to factory settings and wiped of data and the old computer parted from its hard drive.  Then comes the galley, cleaning out all the perishables.  Then the freezer, the bathroom, and, finally, the cabin.</p><p>Joe picks up his box of books, tossing it on the bed.  He tosses his box of art supplies in on top of it, shoves all his clothes in a duffel bag, and then begins to peel the detritus off the walls.  Notes and drawings come down in pieces, torn carelessly off.  He barely spares a glance for the face of the iron maiden before he rips it away from the wood, crumpling it in his fist and shoving it in his trash bag.</p><p>In minutes, the wall is clean and blank once more.  Joe nods, satisfied.  He untapes the sheathed knife from above the doorway, and shoves that in the duffel, too.  Then he pulls the strap of the duffel over his head, picks up his boxes, and—</p><p>—wait. </p><p>He sets down the boxes and kneels down by the bunk.  He can leave the sheets and pillow here, but there’s still one… last… thing.</p><p>The envelope with the photograph is exactly where he left it.  He cradles it in his hands, holding it close for a long moment, before he slips it down into his book box.</p><p>There.  He’s done here.  Time to see what Nile is up to.</p><p>She’s on her hands and knees next to the crane when he finds her, trying to pry off the knife taped to the back of it.  “You have too—many—<em>knives</em>,” she grunts, and then yelps as it suddenly comes free, dumping her onto her ass.  Joe shakes his head, holding a hand out to her to help her up.</p><p>They put the last of Joe’s stuff in the car, along with all the trash.  Joe closes the door to the wheelhouse for the last time, locking it with his key.  The deadbolt clunks into place with finality.</p><p>“Anything else?” Nile asks from the dock as he crosses the gangplank.  “What are you going to do with her, just leave her here?”</p><p>“Nah,” Joe says.  He pulls out the envelope he addressed and stuck in his pocket earlier, slipping the key inside.  There’s a letter, as well, detailing her location and her specs, as well as a postscript note saying to keep a close eye on her wiring.  “We can drop this off at the post office—I’m donating her to a local search and rescue team that’s in need of a new boat.  She’ll be well-used.”</p><p>“Continuing her voyage without you?” Nile asks, and though she sounds like she’s aiming for a joke her voice is too soft to really sell it.</p><p>“Yeah,” Joe says, and swallows once again.  “Something like that.”</p><p>Nile nods.  Then she takes the car keys, sliding behind the wheel as if she understands that Joe needs that last look back through the rear window as the <em>Costante</em> is hidden by the trees once more.  He watches until she’s entirely out of sight, and then he turns back to the front, breathing deep and slow.  Nile has found an oldies station on the radio, and Creedence Clearwater Revival plays.  Joe hums along, closing his eyes.</p><p>He feels light, free.  He can relax, he can rest, at long last.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>My apologies to anyone who didn't agree with my decisions re: Nicky and Booker, etc, last chapter.  Unfortunately, I do think that it makes sense within the context of the story and I will not be changing it.  That said... you are free to use the Inspired By function to write your own take on that scene/chapter.  I would like to see what people think should have happened instead.</p><p>To everyone else--thank you so much for your comments and analysis!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. Chapter 40</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A small beach-side cottage in Malta, early morning, two days after that.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure you want to do this?”</p><p>Nicolo hums, nodding.  “Yes.  It is—how you say?  Like a new beginning,” he says.  “Now hold—<em>hold</em>.”</p><p>Nile holds, standing still with the mirror in her hands.  She’s in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by boxes and boxes of novels that have accumulated here over the last five hundred years, all with Joe’s Genoese scrawled in the margins, in preparation of Nicolo’s return.  Nicolo, who is now sitting in a wooden kitchen chair in the middle of it all, a pair of sharp scissors in one hand.  He has the long tail of his braid clasped in the other, Joe watching on like a hawk in case anything goes wrong.  As Nile eyes him he raises the scissors, presses the blades to the base of the braid, and—</p><p><em>Sniiip</em>.  The hair falls away slowly as he cuts through it.  His face is calm, contemplative, but Nile can’t help her wince, remembering the moment the iron maiden breached the surface of the North Sea, trailing yards and yards of knotted hair behind it.  She thinks about Rapunzel hair, drifting like kelp in the current of the sea, and she swallows. </p><p>She is still, to this day, trying to fathom the immensity of five hundred years under the surface.  It’s so much, so long—a wound deeper than any a human psyche was meant to survive.  But here Nicolo is, having survived it.  He quirks a smile over at Joe as he chops at his hair, shortening it slowly to a couple of inches in length.  Then he cuts the remains of his beard close to his face and, with the help of some shaving cream that Joe squirts onto his fingers, begins to shave for the first time in five hundred years, hands sure and steady.</p><p>He’s okay.  They all are.  And as he and Joe smile at each other Nile pushes aside the constriction in her chest that always comes with trying to imagine the pain of Nicolo’s torment.  Nicolo looks so different like this, with his hair shorn short, a beauty mark visible on his face.  A good different.  Like he’s at peace. </p><p>Joe grins as he finishes up with shaving, taking the razor and rinsing it for the last time.  “Hello there, <em>habibi</em>,” he says, swiping the last of the shaving cream away with a towel.  “It’s nice to see you again.”</p><p>“I am glad to be back,” Nicolo says, and Nile can see the way Joe’s heart is swelling in his chest.  A moment later he’s all but thrown himself at Nicolo, kissing him soundly on the mouth. </p><p>Nile lets out a surprised laugh, moving the scissors away before the two of them knock into them.  “Okay, okay,” she says, picking up the rest of their hair-cutting supplies.  “I got the memo, at least give me some time to get to a different room, please.”</p><p>The two of them break apart.  Nicolo laughs, and Joe smirks, and Nile… she couldn’t be happier.</p><p>Well, unless they were out on the beach, maybe.</p><p>Her wish comes true a moment later as Andy and Quynh stumble inside from their walk into the village, floppy hats askew on their heads and feet dusted with beach sand.  Booker is following along behind them, his nose in one of Joe’s books.</p><p>“Okay,” Quynh says, and brandishes a bag of beach supplies.  “We’ve got towels, shovels, beach balls, umbrellas—it’s beach time, baby!”</p><p>Nile grins, and dives out the door.  Already in her swimsuit, she’s in the water moments later, following as Quynh leads the way.  The others follow at a more sedate pace, Andy bullying Booker into the shallows as Joe and Nicolo set up on the beach sand, sitting side by side in twin beach chairs.  Nile watches them for a moment, squinting in the sun to make sure Joe has remembered the peppermints. </p><p>She shouldn’t have doubted.  He’s there a moment later, pulling one from his pocket to unwrap and place on Nicolo’s tongue, careful and loving.  Nicolo takes it, scrubbing a hand through his short hair and smiling.  He has trouble staying present, sometimes, especially so close to the ocean—but, as Joe has frequently said, he’s a stubborn bastard.  He was the first one championing the vacation to Malta, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.  He’d told Nile before they left that it was a promise between him and Joe—that when it was over they would go back to the place they first confessed their love. </p><p>Nile smiles at the memory.  She’s glad they could do this. </p><p>Joe and Nicolo settle in after that, Nicolo making his way through one of Joe’s books while Joe suns himself, one hand stretched out, pinky stroking Nicolo’s arm.  Nicolo is slowly growing less frighteningly pale in the light of the sun, stronger and steadier by the day.  Nile finds herself lost in the comparison of this man to the corpse who came out of the iron maiden—until she realizes that Andy is standing in the surf beside her, watching her with an amused smile.</p><p>Nile smiles back.  “Hey,” she says.</p><p>“Hey yourself,” Andy says back.  Then she turns, looking out across the beach.  “You know… I think you arrived just as we became mortal.”</p><p>Nile blinks.  “Oh?” she asks.  She hadn’t considered that before.</p><p>Andy nods.  “You came and helped Joe.  You found Nicolo.  You brought us together with your determination and your resilience, and I can’t begin to thank you.”</p><p>Oh.  Nile touches the cross at her throat, feeling the waves pushing at her knees.  “I think I just did what anyone should have done.”</p><p>“Should have, maybe,” Andy says, and turns to give her a look.  “But would just anyone have done what you did?”</p><p>“…Maybe not,” Nile concedes. </p><p>Andy smiles, small and fond.  “That’s what I thought.  You have a gift, Nile—the ability to bring people together, the drive to never leave a man hurting alone.  You and Nicolo are similar in that regard.  And I think… between the two of you… you’ll hold the family together even after Quynh and I are gone.  It’s a lot to ask, but I think you can do it.”</p><p>Nile swallows, blinking rapidly.  “…You know what?  Yeah.  It’s a lot to ask.”  Then she grins.  “Good news for you, though, I’m up for the challenge.  I’ve spent like three months with you assholes and somehow you all became my family.  I’ll keep you all glued together whether you like it or not.”</p><p>At that Andy laughs aloud.  “That’s the spirit,” she says.  And then she bares her teeth in a grin and says, “But hey, me and Quynh aren’t done quite yet.  Get her!”</p><p>Nile gasps and whips around just in time to spy Quynh sneaking up behind her.  She yells as she’s tackled into the water, wrestling with Quynh as Andy laughs.  She’s pinned, Quynh holding her just barely above the waves—but Nile doesn’t mind.  She just kicks a leg out and hooks her ankle around Andy’s calf, dragging her under.</p><p>After that it’s an all out war, Nile and Booker teaming up against Andy and Quynh.  They splash around in the ocean long into the afternoon, yelling and laughing and splashing each other with wild abandon as Joe and Nicolo watch on from the beach. </p><p>It’s good.  It’s the best thing that Nile could have asked for after being torn from the life she once knew and thrust into the strange seas of immortality.  These people… these assholes… they’re <em>her</em> assholes, and she thinks, as they trudge back to the cottage soaking wet and exhausted, that they are finally, <em>finally</em> healing. </p><p>Together.  The way it was always supposed to be.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We made it!!  Heck yeah!!</p><p>I have three important things to say.</p><p>1) Thank you so much for nearly 500 comments and over 700 kudos, wow.  I've been blown away by the response to this fic!  It means a lot to me that so many people thought to leave kind words (and I will always enjoy meta analysis lol).  </p><p>2) Another thank you, this one for @gaydaractivate04 for being such a lovely beta!  You've kept the AU alive and I'm forever in your debt.</p><p>3) SEQUELS.  The big sequel fic is in the works, but I think I'm going to take a bit of a break before I begin posting.  Before that happens, however, there will be an intermission/interlude of Nicky's time alone in the iron maiden.  It's fairly short, about 3k words, but it is VERY graphic so beware of the tags.  That will be posted on Friday.</p><p>Cheers everyone!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Cheers!  Let me know what you think!</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30731840">Love Song to the Lost [art]</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZairaA/pseuds/ZairaA">ZairaA</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
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